


Seventh Horcrux

by EmeraldAshes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ...sort of, Comedy, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-posted on SpaceBattles, Evil Hermione Granger, Friendship, Gen, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Humor, Just Zero Respect, The Malfoys Get No Respect, Under the Influence of Horcruxes, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 98,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28926447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldAshes/pseuds/EmeraldAshes
Summary: The presence of a foreign soul may have unexpected side effects on a growing child. I am Lord Volde...Harry Potter. I'm Harry Potter. In which Harry is insane, Hermione is a Dark Lady-in-training, Ginny is a minion, and Ron is confused.
Relationships: Canon Ships...But Weirder, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	1. Harry Potter vs. Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to cross-post some of my FF.net works. This is definitely my most popular work, so I figured I'd start here. If you want to see anything else added, please let me know.
> 
> Also, I can edit so much more easily on this platform, so feel free to call out typos!

I am Lord Voldemort, and I was one step away from conquering Wizarding Britain.  
  
October 31st, 1981 began as a fairly normal day — arranging raids, crucioing incompetents, lazing about on my throne — yet it seemed that everything my followers did irked me.  
  
Bellatrix crouched at my feet, sneaking glances and occasionally emitting dreamy sighs, exactly the sort of behavior that caused me to turn myself into a nose-less snake. Rabastan Lestrange was playing a game called Curse the Recruits, the recruits were screaming, Nott was paging through one of my Dark tomes, and Lucius had disappeared to go brush his hair or something. There were worse ways to spend Halloween, I supposed.  
  
“M-my Lord!” a nasally voice cried, its owner scurrying towards my throne. “I have information on the Potters.”  
  
I paused for a moment, contemplating the Death Eater’s words. The Potters were Dumbledore’s minions, the ones with the prophesied child. They’d defied me three times. I should know; I keep a list of these things.  
  
“Speak quickly, then,” I snapped, “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”  
  
The short Death Eater cowered at my feet, and I noted that he was particularly talented at cowering.

“I’m s-s-sorry, my lord. I’ve gained their trust, as you ordered me to, and I can tell you that…” – he took a shuddering breath – “the Potters may be found at Godric’s Hallow.”  
  
He rattled off the proper address, stumbling over every other word. The man was clearly incompetent, but he had been useful.  
  
I said, “I am immensely pleased with this information…”  
  
What was his name again? I narrowed my eyes at the still shivering man’s unremarkable, brown hair. That was the trouble with giving all your followers masks. They all looked so _similar._ After a moment of silence, I murmured, “My faithful servant.”  
  
“Thank you, my l-lord,” he simpered, bowing again and again. By the fifth time, I’d become peeved and, with an idle flick of my wand, slammed him into the stones.  
  
“You are dismissed.”  
  
The bleeding man stumbled from the room.  
  
Seizing the opportunity to escape my followers, I gracefully rose to my feet.  
  
“I shall be busy for some time. Do not kill any of your fellow Death Eaters without my permission” — I sternly eyed Bellatrix — “We hardly need a repetition of last Valentine’s Day.”  
  
Bellatrix bowed her head sullenly. “Yes, my lord.”  
  
After a moment, she perked up. This was almost certainly a bad thing. “May I help you dispose of the blood traitors, my lord?”  
  
“No,” I said a touch too quickly.  
  
Clearing my throat, I clarified, “This is a simple mission for I, the Dark Lord Voldemort. Your addition would be unnecessary.”  
  
I turned away from my pouting follower. Bellatrix was a wonderful asset: loyal, powerful, and bloodthirsty. Yet her eagerness could be grating. I walked quickly down the gloomy hallway, swept through the heavy door, and — my ears popping as I exited the wards — apparated mid-stride.  
  
I appeared in the middle of a quiet street in the village known as Godric’s Hollow. I had been here once or twice before to observe Dumbledore’s residence. Know thy enemy and all that.  
  
It was still fairly early in the night and a few trick-or-treaters wandered between houses. They stole glances at me and my, to quote them, bloody brilliant costume.

None of them so much as glanced at one particular cottage, though smoke drifted from its chimney. Considering children and their gluttonous fixation on candy, I could only presume I’d found the correct address.  
  
I didn’t bother with the subtle approach. In a moment, the door was blasted off its hinges and the screaming had started. Again, I’d like to stress that this had, so far, been a perfectly normal day.  
  
The father was quickly dispatched, and I merrily climbed the staircase, following the hysterical sobs of mother and child. I’d never considered myself a violent man, but there is a certain satisfaction in winning, even if my opponents are severely outmatched. So what if I liked to draw it out a bit?  
  
The Potter woman flung her arms out in a pitiful shield. She looked feral, eyes wide, limbs shaking. “Not Harry! Please, no, not Harry. I’ll do anything!” she cried.  
  
I offered her a chance to live because, contrary to popular belief, I can be nice. I’m also quite the conversationalist when my companion isn’t trying to lick my boots. Seriously, who does that? But I digress.  
  
The Potter woman had finally used up my patience, and I killed her with an Avada Kedavra. I laughed, the sound nearly drowning out the baby’s sobs. So this was the child of prophecy, was it? Pathetic.  
  
“Avada Kedavra,” I said. The baby watched the spell curiously. He wailed, I cackled, and the room turned green.  
  
Suddenly, I experienced a sensation that felt suspiciously like dying horribly, and I lost consciousness. My memory of the next few years is rather confused.  
  
That day marked the end of my reign and of the First Wizarding War. It also began my second life. This time, I was going to do things a bit differently.  
  
I am Harry Potter, former Dark Lord.

* * *

In retrospect, I have absolutely no idea how Horcruxes work.  
  
I probably shouldn’t have made one, let alone five, based on only three paragraphs of description which mainly centered on the mechanics of the ritual and not the effects. But I had limited access to the Restricted Section, at the time, and I was a very enthusiastic youth.  
  
I had originally assumed that they would make my body invulnerable, but that was clearly not the case.  
  
Perhaps they bound me to the world, allowing me to possess those weaker than myself. Obviously, the Potter child had succumbed to my greater force of will. I supposed that made as much sense as anything.  
  
On that note, what about the prophecy? This would be easier if I knew it in its entirety. It was possible that I’d already fulfilled the blasted thing. My body was incinerated by my reflected spell. Did that count as being vanquished? I was Harry Potter, now, and I could hardly vanquish myself.  
  
My questions would go unanswered for some time.

* * *

The Dursleys immediately sensed my evil. This was particularly impressive since I took several months to properly remember my time as a dark lord, yet they deemed me a monster upon my arrival at their doorstep. Amid the humiliation of diaper changes, tentative steps, and lisping words, I took great satisfaction in my caretakers’ building horror. Even as a baby, I could still strike fear into the hearts of filthy muggles.  
  
It started small as I relearned the art of wandless magic. Forget to feed little Harry and Dudley’s bottle explodes. Insult him and your tongue starts to swell up. Go ahead, lock him in a cupboard. He will _always_ find his way out, and you will somehow find your way in.  
  
Even misfortunes that could not possibly be my fault, such as Vernon’s demotion at work, were attributed to my malice. I, of course, never argued against anything that made me seem more powerful.  
  
The Dursleys eventually decided that they feared my dark presence more than Dumbledore’s threats. They dropped me off at the orphanage, the firehouse, and deep in the wilderness. They even called Child Protective Services on themselves. Repeatedly. Yet I was always back by morning.  
  
I blame Dumbledore.  
  
I was five years old when Petunia Dursley realized that she would never be rid of me. I know this because she began sobbing while insisting that she would never be rid of me.  
  
Thick as they were, the Dursleys eventually realized that the only way to live unharmed was to accommodate my desires. It was the childhood I had always dreamed of.

* * *

During those early years, I had a lot of time to think.

From a few expeditions into the Wizarding World, I cobbled together the state of things. I had obviously vanished, and my followers had either been arrested or rejected me. Meanwhile, everyone believed that Harry Potter was an amazing and incredibly talented child (a not inaccurate belief).  
  
I’ll admit that I’d grown weary of being a Dark Lord. It was boring, the Death Eaters were irritating, and I had no particular interest in reigning over a nation of mindless sheep. There was a certain charm to fighting against Dumbledore, and murder is a good stress-reliever. But perhaps it was time to discard my previous life. This new identity could open doors that my previous self had foolishly closed long ago.  
  
It was time to return to my first dream.

Teaching.

* * *

To be honest, I hadn’t planned on the whole Dark Lord thing. It just sort of happened.  
  
I’d always wanted to be a professor, either of Defense Against the Dark Arts or just of the Dark Arts. The latter wasn’t exactly taught at Hogwarts, however, and Hogwarts was my first true home. My greatest desire was to return to it and live there. Forever.  
  
With my original Horcruxes created and hidden away, I might have become as much a fixture of the school as poor, idiotic Binns. That dream was crushed by Dumbledore. His first official act as Headmaster was to deny me the position. After a very strenuous job interview, I might add. Offended and heartbroken, I cursed the DADA post and stormed out of the castle.  
  
So there I was: depressed, unemployed, and increasingly intoxicated. I slumped across the Hog’s Head’s bar, accompanied by a few of my old Slytherin buddies. We were reminiscing, telling racist jokes, and complaining about all the Muggleborns stealing our jobs. At some point, we got onto the topic of the abysmal education provided by Hogwarts. Turning away a young, eager, intelligent — if slightly evil — job applicant showed a startling lack of foresight.  
  
“Kids nowadays don’t know anything,” I slurred. “I bet the six of us could take out every one of the half-wits they’re graduating and show them exactly how much they suck at defending against the Dark Arts. Then they’d _have_ to hire me.”  
  
That’s the last thing I remember of that night.  
  
A few days later, I woke up in an alley with a pounding headache. By the time I’d gotten home and downed a hangover potion, _The Prophet_ had arrived. In my drunken haze, I’d killed six Ministry workers and declared myself the Dark Lord Voldemort (I never would have picked that name had I been sober).

Once you’ve done something like that, it’s exceedingly difficult to get a job around children. I know. I tried.  
  
The next several years were spent struggling to legitimize my movement. I commissioned uniforms, made inquiries with Europe’s darker creatures, cobbled together an ideological banner with which to rally new recruits...Recreating the Dark Mark alone took me nearly six months. Natural genius aside, I have no idea how I managed that while smashed.  
  
My power base was entrenched in the Pureblood, Slytherin alumni as my drinking companions benefitted greatly from convincing their allies to join me. Not only were they tied to my will with dark magic, but they were also desperate to cover up the details of our drunken escapade. An embarrassment like that would be a crippling blow to their rapidly declining oligarchy.  
  
In retrospect, the situation could have been worse. I might have joined forces with dozens of pompous fools and admitted cowards, but at least I was their leader and therefore best.

* * *

I stroked the parchment of my Hogwarts letter with fondness.  
  
The youngest Dursley nearly wet himself at the deranged smile on my face. That was an expression usually reserved for our little “chats."

...These usually involved quite a bit more screaming than chatting. Still, I always healed him at the end, so it’s not like he had anything to complain about.  
  
My “loving” relatives were more than happy to ship me off to Hogwarts where I would be far, far away from them. The desire was mutual. Even with training, the three were barely tolerable.

* * *

If I’d known the scar would be this much trouble, I would have worn a hat. I slammed the door shut on a particularly persistent fan. Sure, I liked groveling as much as the next dark lord, but for a stranger to actually try and kiss my robes? Honestly! Whatever happened to keeping a respectful, reverent distance?  
  
Wandlessly locking the door of the shabby, silent shop, I took a moment to catch my breath.  
  
“Good afternoon,” a voice murmured. I practically jumped out of my skin. How in Merlin’s name had he snuck up on me?  
  
“Mr. Ollivander,” I said to the pale-eyed, elderly man. Nearly fifty years had passed since I’d last seen him, yet he hadn’t aged a day. Clearly I wasn’t the only immortal wizard in Britain. I quashed the urge to ask him how he’d done it.  
  
“Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” He spoke my name with a strange emphasis.  
  
While I pondered the wandmaker’s dark secrets, the man chattered inanely about nothing in particular. His mask of absentminded insanity was admirable. He handed me one wand and another and another still. Before I could even give them a wave, he snatched them from my hand. He proceeded to do this with every wand in the bloody shop. If I hadn’t been certain he’d taken precautions against such paltry attacks, I might have stabbed him with one of his wares. I was Lord Voldemort, for Merlin’s sake! I could easily force the cooperation of even an unsuitable wand.  
  
An unsettling glint appeared in Ollivander’s silvery eyes. Mumbling to himself, he dug out a holly wand. It hummed beneath my fingertips, warm to the touch. Unconsciously, I smiled at the familiar sensation and swung the wand around in a rain of colorful sparks.  
  
Wrapping it up, he muttered. “Curious…curious…”  
  
I was beginning to suspect something was curious. I inquired, with careful politeness, “Curious?”  
  
“Curious,” he agreed. He rambled on about my wand for some time before finally coming to a point. “It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar.”  
  
“What a coincidence,” I squeaked.  
  
He stared at me intently, and I could feel my stomach drop. He knew. I could see it in his watchful eyes, the taunting tilt of his head. Ollivander knew exactly who I was or, more precisely, who I wasn’t. My gaze darted to the wrapped wand in his hand. If I was fast, I could probably grab it, kill him, and run in a minute, maybe less. I’d have preferred to avoid murder for a few more years, but desperate times call for desperate measures.  
  
Seemingly unaware of my frantic thoughts, Ollivander continued, “I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible, yes, but great.”  
  
…Was he supporting me? That sounded suspiciously like a compliment. I said, “Thank you, sir, for the help.”  
  
“Anytime, Harry Potter,” the man rasped.

* * *

Stepping into the train station as the Dursleys’ car squealed away, I had never been happier. I was returning to Hogwarts, and it had been far too long since I’d been home.


	2. Harry Potter vs. Quirinus Quirrel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to Hogwarts and begins recruiting minions...er, friends. Recruiting friends.

“The station is here somewhere,” I murmured.  
  
Admittedly, it had been a very long time since I’d gone to school. I knew I had to walk into one of the barriers, but which one? Trying for nonchalance, I leaned against a barrier. Solid. I scuttled to the left. Still solid.  
  
Six attempts later, people were looking at me oddly. I groaned, slumping against the wall only to go toppling backward. Luckily, there are charms that keep Muggles from noticing things like that.

I somersaulted a dozen times, causing bystanders to jump away in fright. Finally, I landed on my knees, arms outstretched.  
  
“I meant to do that!” I shouted.

* * *

“Are you the guy who backflipped into the station?” a redheaded boy asked, staring at me with the appropriate level of worship.  
  
“Yes,” I said, “Yes I am.”  
  
“I’m Ron Weasley,” he said.  
  
I shuddered. I remembered the Weasleys. They were a threat through sheer force of numbers. No matter how many you killed, there was always another to take its place. At one point I had considered them a possible target for the prophecy but had found that – for once – they were not spawning.  
  
“I’m Harry Potter. You may have heard of me; I defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort. If you haven’t heard of me, I’m Harry and I defeated Voldemort.”  
  
I had no particular interest in chatting, but the Weasley was quite capable of carrying on a conversation without my input.  
  
Shortly afterward, a round-faced boy poked his head into the compartment. “Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”  
  
“Nope,” I chirped, “Who’re you?”  
  
“Neville Longbottom,” he said. So this was the other child of prophecy. He didn’t look like much, but I was never one to be fooled by appearances.  
  
“I have an idea,” I said. “Accio toad.”  
  
Four toads sped towards me, bouncing against the walls. One of them had dragged its cage along with it.  
  
“Is one of these yours?”  
  
Longbottom nodded. “Trevor’s the one on the left.”  
  
“Good. I’ll give him back to you on one condition. You have to swear a magical oath that you will never, ever harm me no matter what I do.”  
  
“Wh-what?”  
  
I burst into laughter. “Just kidding!”  
  
I wasn’t kidding. Longbottom was a serious threat, but I also wasn’t going to push this. Not yet.  
  
After Longbottom fled the room, toad in hand, the Weasley turned to me. “Hey, Harry, how come you know that spell?”  
  
“I defeated Voldemort as a baby. I’ve only gotten better since then.”  
  
The train continued to chug along as I ignored him. A couple of hours later, a pale, blond boy with a pointed nose strode into the room, two lackeys at his heels. Oh Merlin, Lucius had finally managed to clone himself.  
  
“Is it true?” Malfoy said. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry Potter’s in this compartment.”  
  
“Really?” I gasped. “Harry Potter. No way! Have you checked the whole train?”  
  
Malfoy looked surprised, but quickly regained his composure. “No, I haven’t,” he said.  
  
“Good luck, then.”  
  
The blond left.  
  
“Did you just send him all ‘round the train to look for you?” the Weasley asked.  
  
“Oh, he seems like a pretty smart guy. I’m sure he’ll be back soon enough.”  
  
An hour later, a very unhappy Malfoy, his face reddened from exertion, barged into our compartment. “You’re Harry Potter!”  
  
I put on a look of innocence. “I never said I wasn’t.”  
  
“Well, I’m Draco Malfoy and I was hoping to speak to you” — he glanced disdainfully at the Weasley — “Privately.”  
  
The Weasley bristled. I held out an arm. “Quiet, I know exactly how to handle this.”  
  
I smirked. “So, you wish to join me. Your foresight is commendable, and I assure you that — should you choose to be my minion — I shall allow you a sliver of my eventual glory.”  
  
Malfoy sputtered in indignation. “I’m a Malfoy. Malfoys are not minions.”  
  
He stormed from the room. Lucius always was a drama queen. I suppose this might have been easier had the boy not been under the impression that I’d killed me.  
  
“That was brilliant, Harry. You really showed him,” the Weasley said.  
  
“Yes, I suppose I did. Although it would have been nice to have a minion...”  
  
“I’ll be your minion,” he offered.  
  
I sighed. “No. That would be too easy.”

* * *

Hushed whispers filled the Hall as I approached the Sorting Hat. I ignored them, tracing the footsteps of my younger self and sitting upon the rickety stool. Hundreds of curious faces stared up from the Great Hall, but they were quickly blocked from view as the Sorting Hat fell across my eyes.  
  
Its voice echoed between my ears. “I know this mind,” it said. “Tom Riddle?”  
  
“Don’t call me that!” I mentally snapped, “I’m Harry Potter.”  
  
“Yes, I suppose you are. Aren’t you?”  
  
A chuckled shook the hat. It continued, “But, whether or not we’ve met before is of little consequence. The question is where to put you. You haven’t changed much. You’re obviously rather cunning, ambitious, a parselmouth…”  
  
“Gryffindor.”  
  
“Really? But you would do so well in Slytherin,” the Hat said.  
  
“I’ve already done well in Slytherin. Now I want to do well, in _Gryffindor_.”  
  
The Hat hummed thoughtfully. “Sure, are we? How strange. Gryffindor doesn’t suit you very well at all. The only worse house would be Hufflepuff.”  
  
“Of course. Your own song all but admits that it is the house of stupid, ambitionless cowards.”  
  
“Not what I was going for, but I’ll admit that wasn’t the most flattering of my songs. Ravenclaw, perhaps, if you’re so averse to your true house. You certainly possess the Eagles’ madness, and you’re clever enough.”  
  
“No,” I hissed. “I detest riddles. Send me to Gryffindor with all the other little paragons of light.”  
  
“Hm…”  
  
“I’ve already cursed three of the Founders' artifacts. Would you like to make it four?”  
  
I could hear the other students murmuring as my Sorting dragged on and on. This was growing suspicious, and I began to fear I might lose what little advantage my fame had given me.  
  
“Then again, it was brave of you to argue, challenging me without a proper plan in place. Why, that was downright GRYFFINDOR.”  
  
The final word echoed across the Hall and my new house burst into cheers. I suppressed a very Slytherin smirk. It wouldn’t do to make a poor first impression, after all.

* * *

“Now, p-please open your books to p-p-p-page thi…th-thirteen,” Quirrel stuttered.  
  
As much as I loathed wasting my time with an idiot, I reminded myself that this was a good thing. The fewer teachers Dumbledore had to hire in the next six years, the less chance he had of accidentally getting someone capable of breaking my curse.  
  
You see, all truly powerful curses must have an escape clause. Many are used to punish an injustice. Should the injustice be righted in some other way, the curse will end.  
  
My curse upon the DADA professorship would be lifted when Dumbledore found an applicant that was as well suited to the position as I had been.  
  
Of course, if Dumbledore had ever been willing to hire talented professors, _I_ would have gotten the job.

* * *

“Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” Severus Snape demanded.  
  
I said, “The Draught of Living Death.”  
  
Severus sneered. “The Draught of Living Death, _sir_. Ten points from Gryffindor for disrespecting a professor.”  
  
Ah, Severus, my most loyal servant. It was good to see that, even a decade after my disappearance, he continued to attack my enemies. I suspected this would negatively impact my Potions grade, since I currently was one of my enemies. Nevertheless, his devotion was admirable.  
  
“Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?” he snapped.  
  
“The stomach of a goat, sir,” I told him smugly.  
  
Severus’ eye twitched with frustration. “Twenty points for smirking. What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”  
  
“There is no difference. Would you like to hear its third name?”  
  
“Fifty points for your cheek!” Severus roared.  
  
That year, I was determined to singlehandedly win the House Cup.  
  
For Slytherin.

* * *

“Aren’t we going to the Halloween Feast? Harry? Er, Harry?”

I gritted my teeth against the Weasley’s verbal spew. He had attached himself to me like some sort of parasite. Of all the many, many Weasleys, why did I end up with the least talented one?  
  
“I don’t like parties, Ron,” I explained with forced patience.  
  
Ron whined, “Come on, it’ll be fun. Please?”  
  
“No,” I said. My self-proclaimed best mate trailed behind me like a stupid puppy.  
  
I grumbled, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Just go by yourself; I can hear your stomach growling from here.”  
  
The boy wrinkled his nose in confusion. “My stomach isn’t growling.”  
  
“Then what is that…Oh.”  
  
I quieted at the sight of an enormous troll. Yanking my minion into the nearest room, I desperately cast every locking spell I knew on the door.  
  
“This is the girls’ loo!” the Weasley protested.  
  
“There is a _troll_ in the hallway. It will _eat_ us…On second thought, maybe you should leave. I’ll wait here.”  
  
“There’s a troll?” a shaky voice asked from inside the stall. The tearstained, reddened face of Hermione Granger, a First Year Gryffindor, peeked out at us.  
  
I sighed, “That is exactly what I just finished explaining. Now, if everyone would kindly shut up before it hears us and decides to investigate – “  
  
At that moment, the troll’s club smashed through the door, which is the main weakness of most locking charms. I’ll admit that I panicked. Trolls are magically resistant, the Weasley was far too small to serve as a human shield, and two deaths in ten years is far too many.  
  
“Evanesco troll,” I murmured. The troll disappeared.  
  
Hero worship filled my minion’s Weasley eyes. “Wicked.”  
  
Hermione asked, “Where did it go?”  
  
I shrugged. “Where does anything that’s vanished go?”  
  
We stood there for a few minutes, contemplating the nature of nonexistence. At least that’s what I was doing. I don’t know about the children.  
  
Then, shortly after we all should have died horrible deaths via bludgeoning, the professors arrived.

Typical.  
  
“What on earth are you thinking?” McGonagall demanded, “Why aren’t you in your dormitory?”  
  
“We were supposed to be in the dormitory?” the Weasley asked.  
  
“Indeed,” Severus purred, “but I suppose it is beneath you to listen to mere professors. Fifty points from – “  
  
“Wait!” Hermione interrupted. “We didn’t know we were supposed to be anywhere because we weren’t at the Feast. I…I was helping Harry and Ron to study for Transfiguration and we lost track of time. We were going to the Great Hall when the troll appeared. Harry dragged us into the loo and we hid.”  
  
“And just where is the troll now?” Severus inquired, dark eyes glinting maliciously.  
  
“I don’t know sir,” she said. “It couldn’t find us, so it left a few minutes ago.”  
  
“I think it went to the left,” I said.  
  
Hermione sighed. “I’m not so sure. I never realized trolls could move so _fast_.”  
  
She stared up at the professors with big, innocent eyes. I grinned. Not only was Ms. Granger clever, but she was apparently an adept liar and surprisingly loyal, considering our previous lack of a relationship. If she was as talented at dueling as she was the simpler magics, she would resemble a younger, saner Bellatrix. As we hurried to our dormitory – dismissed by the professors – I seized the chance to recruit a new minion.  
  
“Hermione,” I said sweetly, “Do you want to be friends?”  
  
Merlin bless the simple interactions of children.

* * *

Dumbledore peered across the desk at me as I squirmed in my seat. Admittedly, fighting a mountain troll was bound to be noticed. Particularly since they never found it.  
  
“Lemon drop, Mr. Potter?”  
  
I nodded, quietly pocketing the candy.  
  
“How have you been settling in?” the old man asked kindly.  
  
“It’s been brilliant, sir,” I said, carefully mimicking the diction of my classmates, “I’ve made friends with Ron ‘n Hermione ‘n a bunch of other Gryffindors. Charms is pretty neat, and I’m real good at potions. I don’t think Professor Snape likes me much, though…”  
  
Throughout this rambling speech, I’d kept my eyes firmly lodged on Dumbledore’s desk. After all, I was just a timid little first year talking to the scary, scary Headmaster who could READ MY MIND.  
  
Dumbledore chuckled, “That’s just Severus’ nature, I fear. Do not worry, my boy, he likes you as well as anyone. May I ask what about my desk is so fascinating?”  
  
I winced. Dumbledore was diabolical, I knew, and far too skilled at seeing through my ruse. Now, I would have no choice but to stare into his twinkling, mind-reading eyes. What did First Years think about, anyway? I reluctantly looked up, a shy smile on my face and a few choice memories at the front of my mind.  
  
“So, Mr. Potter” – he paused for a moment to skim my thoughts – “I’ve heard you like Quidditch?”  
  
My eyes widened. “Doesn’t everyone like Quidditch?”  
  
Seemingly convinced of my innocence, the Headmaster cheerfully sent me on my way. I clutched the lemon drop in my pocket. I later subjected it to every diagnostic and detection charm in my repertoire, but I never could discover what he’d spiked it with.

I can only assume that he chose something diabolically subtle.

* * *

“It’s an invisibility cloak,” Ron breathed, a look of awe on his face.  
  
I studied the note tucked into its folds. It was unsigned and my paranoia was screaming to burn the cloak before it could be used against me.  
  
“But who would send this to me?” I mused aloud. “I mean, this thing is worth more than your life, Ron. Honestly, I could sell your entire family and only be able to buy a few feet. And you have a very large family.”  
  
I didn’t exactly have a lot of allies. The Potter family was dead and all of the wealthier Purebloods wished to murder me. In the end, I concluded that it must be the doings of Dumbledore.  
  
I wasn’t certain how this would be used against me, but there was no other reason for such a gift.  
  
Dumbledore was a far greater dark lord than I could ever hope to be. He was fifty steps ahead of everyone else, so far ahead that – by the time his plans came to fruition – everyone involved had already died. My only hope was to throw him off balance by planning no steps ahead.

* * *

“Um, Harry?”  
  
“Yes, Hermione?”  
  
“Why are you a floating head?”  
  
I grinned. “Somebody gave me an invisibility cloak for Christmas. These things wear out after a couple of years, so I figure I might as well use it. After tripping people got boring, I decided I’d just wear it like a regular cloak.”

  
“Oh,” the girl said, “I guess that makes sense.”

* * *

“For heaven’s sake, Harry, it’s been three days, aren’t you ever going to take off the stupid cloak?” Hermione groaned.  
  
“The cloak isn’t stupid,” I insisted.  
  
The Weasley sighed. “Mate, it’s getting kind of weird.”  
  
“Look, it’s very useful. I can use it to hide and freak people out, and it’s great for spying. Actually, here, let me show you.”  
  
I closed the cloak around my companions. When the only person to pass by during the next several minutes was Longbottom, searching for his toad, Hermione looked about ready to storm away. Suddenly, a shrouded figure strode past.  
  
“The Philosopher’s Stone will soon be ours,” the figure murmured.  
  
“Ha!” I exclaimed. “I told you it was useful.”

* * *

“I can’t let anyone else get the stone,” I told my minions. Luckily, they didn’t notice that I said “anyone else” instead of “anyone.”  
  
“We’re coming with you,” the Weasley said, Hermione nodding in agreement.  
  
I laughed weakly. Dumbledore was out of the castle and tonight was my one chance to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. “Oh, you don’t need to do that. I really don’t need witness-er, companions. I’ve got this pretty well covered. I did defeat Voldemort, after all.”  
  
“You are _not_ going alone,” Hermione insisted.  
  
Stupid, pushy minions.

* * *

“Stupefy,” I drawled, smirking as the cerberus froze in place.  
  
“So, what do we do now?” the Weasley asked.  
  
“A trap door!” Hermione cried.  
  
I strode forward, opening the trap door. “Now, we have to be very careful because anything could be down there. This is guarding a very dangerous artifact, after all, so the traps are almost certainly deadly…Ron, you’re first.”  
  
“Wait, why do I have to be first?” he asked.  
  
I sighed. “Well, we can hardly afford to lose Hermione; she knows everything. Mostly, however, it’s because you are the most Gryffindor of us all.”  
  
The Weasley took this as a compliment. It was not intended as such. Still, it got him down the hatch, so I can hardly complain.  
  
“Gah! There’s something down here,” he yelled. “I’m all caught up in it, and it keeps pulling at me.”  
  
“Hm…Lumos.” The light allowed me to see down into the hatch. In retrospect, I probably could have done this before sending in one of my minions, but there’s no use worrying about it now.  
  
A series of vines had hold of him. I frowned. “Incendio.”  
  
“Ah!” the Weasley cried.  
  
Once the vines were sufficiently cleared, I hopped down, followed by Hermione. The Weasley curled against the floor, whimpering.  
  
Hermione asked, “Ron, are you alright?”  
  
He groaned. “Did you really have to set me on fire?”  
  
“Actually, yes,” Hermione answered for me as she inspected the shriveled remains of the plant. “This is Devil’s Snare. It’s very sensitive to light. With so much of it, a lumos probably wouldn’t have been enough to free you. I can’t believe you recognized it so quickly, Harry.”  
  
I said, “I’m very talented, and it’s commendable that you took the time to enlighten Ron.”  
  
…and me. To be honest, I didn’t know anything about Devil’s Snare. Most plants react poorly to fire, however, and incendio is one of those neat little spells that’s useful in every situation.  
  
“Um, can you get up?” Hermione asked.  
  
“No…”  
  
“We’ll just have to venture forth without him,” I declared.  
  
“But he’s hurt!” Hermione said. “We can’t just leave him here.”  
  
“Oh, he’ll be fine,” I said. “Right, Ron?”  
  
He groaned again.  
  
“I’m pretty sure that means right. Come along, Hermione.”  
  
She was really much easier to convince than I expected. I don’t even think she looked back as we walked to the next room, which was filled with flying keys and broomsticks.  
  
Hermione frowned at the flock of keys. “One of these must open the door, probably something a bit older and silver, to match the handle. I suppose we have to use the broomsticks and catch it. But neither of us is any good at flying…If only Ron wasn’t hurt…”  
  
“Eh, we don’t need him,” I said. “Accio working key.”  
  
A silver key with bright blue wings – one already crumpled – zipped from the air to my hand. When I set it in the keyhole, the door opened immediately.  
  
She gasped. “How did you manage that?”  
  
“Hermione, there must be fifty keys up there. They can’t all be real keys that open things. That would be ridiculous. It would make far more sense to make a bunch of fake keys with only one that works.”  
  
Magic is so much simpler with the proper use of adjectives.

* * *

The next room featured a giant chess set that blocked our path when we tried to walk past.  
  
“We need to play,” Hermione said. “Oh, now I really wish Ron was here.”  
  
“We could just fly over,” I said. “There are broomsticks right there.”  
  
Hermione bit her lip. “I don’t really like flying.”  
  
I patted her on the head, which would have been far more patronizing if I hadn’t been forced to reach up to do so. “No one intelligent really _likes_ flying. It involves sending yourself high in the air on a very thin platform with minimal protective charms.”  
  
“You’re not making me feel any better about this,” Hermione said.  
  
Ah, yes, comfort. I could do that. “…But, with appropriate caution, we shall hopefully avoid dying horribly.”  
  
Hermione looked a bit green. Retrieving brooms from the previous room, I handed one to her, and we lifted off. Admittedly, it probably shouldn’t have taken ten minutes to cross a thirty-foot-long space. Yet I feel that we are vindicated by the fact that neither of us plummeted to our deaths.

* * *

Black flames surrounded us. We kept well back from them, as neither of us wanted to end up like the Weasley. Hermione solved the riddle quickly enough, though.  
  
“This one will take us forward, this one back, and these are poison,” she said.  
  
I took the tiny bottle that would send the drinker forward. “Only looks like enough for one of us, Hermione. I will go, of course.”  
  
She pouted. “No it isn’t. If we just took tiny sips…”  
  
I shook my head. I really didn’t need her interfering when I stole the stone. “No, no, definitely not enough. Besides, you should go back and take Ron to the Hospital Wing. He’s probably dying right now.”  
  
Hermione looked horrified. “You said he would be fine!”  
  
“Yes, well, I was being optimistic. Now I’m not. I’m not saying he’s _definitely_ in horrible agony, but you should probably check.”  
  
She took one last lingering glance at the flames. “Well, I suppose I should. I wish I could go with you, though…”  
  
As much as I respected Hermione’s complete disregard for her friend’s well-being, Dumbledore could be coming to stop me at this very moment. “Goodbye, Hermione.”  
  
She gave me a quick hug and wished me luck before rushing back through the fire.

* * *

I stepped warily through the black flames, eyes primed for any sign of the Philosopher’s Stone. No, I didn’t need it, not with my horcruxes. Nevertheless, one can never be too immortal.  
  
I nearly fell over in shock when I spotted Quirrel. The professor was crouched in front of an ornate mirror, tapping the glass experimentally. I suddenly realized that his stuttering, his idiocy, and his horrible teaching were all an act.  
  
Since I was covered by an invisibility cloak, Quirrel had yet to detect my presence.  
  
“Avada Kedavra,” I whispered. Too focused on the mirror to see my spell, he crumpled to the ground. Immediately, a dark mist rose from his body and wooshed through the flames.  
  
“That was weird.” A quick incendio charred Quirrel’s corpse and I kicked it to the side.  
  
“Now, how do I get the stone?” In the mirror, my reflection (an older, distinguished-looking professor) shrugged and smiled mischievously. Neither physical nor magical attacks had any effect on the mirror and I was about ready to slam my head into the thing when Dumbledore burst through the flames.  
  
“Headmaster!” I exclaimed in surprise. “This isn’t what it looks like. Y’see, I realized that someone was going to steal the stone and Quirrel attacked me and then he burst into flames.”  
  
I waved my hands around for emphasis. This is why I usually prepare my cover stories ahead of time.  
  
Dumbledore looked pretty happy, considering his current DADA teacher was dead at his feet. Perhaps he was just relieved that this one lasted the term. “That was your mother’s love, dear boy. It protects you.”  
  
I blinked in surprise, “My mother’s love is fire?”  
  
He chuckled, “Something like that.”  
  
“So, you’re not punishing me?”  
  
“Of course not,” he reassured me. Wow, I’d just murdered a teacher, and I didn’t even get a detention. They weren’t nearly this lenient when I went to school.

* * *

The Great Hall was already decked out in green and silver when my minions and I entered. The Weasley muttered under his breath and sulked, but I was in a great mood. I waved to Snape. He didn’t even hiss, so I suspected he was in a good mood as well. When Longbottom’s toad skittered beneath the table, I barely even thought about stepping on it.  
  
“Can’t believe we lost to a bunch of snakes,” the Weasley said.  
  
“They’ve managed to win for six years in a row,” Hermione said. “It’s hardly surprising they did it again.”  
  
The toad had leapt onto the table and was currently ruining the pudding. One of the older Weasleys carefully circled it, wand at the ready. Perry, I think.  
  
Ron said, “It’s all because Snape’s a bastard.”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “If Harry didn’t pick fights with him so often…”  
  
I beamed. “Oh, yes, it’s definitely my fault.”  
  
Dumbledore called for our attention at the front of the room. He smiled, as if we weren’t all on to him. “Another year gone! And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were... you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts....  
  
“Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth, Gryffindor with three hundred points; in third, Hufflepuff with three hundred and fifty-two; in second, Ravenclaw with fourth hundred and twenty-six; and, in first place, Slytherin with four hundred and seventy-two.”  
  
There was clapping and cheering, mostly from me. The Weasley asked, “Mate, what are you doing?”  
  
“Demonstrating good sportsmanship,” I declared. “I think it’s telling I’m the only one doing so.”  
  
“But there are some last minute points that have yet to be awarded,” Dumbledore said, eyes gleaming with nefarious intent. “To Mr. Ronald Weasley, for keeping a cool head in the face of fire, I award fifty points. To Miss Hermione Granger, for mustering the courage to fly, I award fifty points. To Mr. Harry Potter, for protecting an irreplaceable heirloom, I also award fifty points.”  
  
I frowned. Huh, still twenty-two points behind. I’d really expected worse from the old man. I asked, “No one else has done anything heroic lately, have they?”  
  
It was at that moment that the older Weasley lunged for Longbottom’s toad. He cried out triumphantly, “Aha! There you go, Neville.”  
  
Dumbledore chuckled. “Finally, to Mr. Percival Weasley, for returning a younger student’s lost pet, I award twenty-three points.”  
  
Gryffindor yowled its approval.  
  
“Oh come on,” I said. “He’s blatantly cheating.”


	3. Harry Potter vs. Gilderoy Lockhart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had Dumbledore finally hired a Defense professor talented enough to break the DADA curse? Harry plots to kill Gilderoy Lockhart before it's too late.
> 
> ...Also, someone's opened the Chamber of Secrets again.

I woke up to two bulbous eyes staring at me from the foot of my bed. Grabbing my wand, I growled, “Trying to kill me, eh?”  
  
The house-elf gaped. “Dobby is not trying to kill the Great Harry Potter; Dobby is only trying to save him. Dobby…”  
  
Dobby. I knew that name from somewhere. I hummed, my wand still pointed at the house-elf. “You’re Lucius’s elf, the one who used to serve those fantastic cakes!”  
  
“The Great Harry Potter knows about Dobby?” the pitiful creature said, eyes filling with tears.  
  
It wasn’t that impressive, really. House-elves were simply less prone to failure than their owners and therefore died significantly less often.  
  
“So, which Malfoy sent you then? The older or the younger?”  
  
“No one sent Dobby. Dobby went on his own. Dobby wanted to warn the Great Harry Potter—"  
  
“House-elves don’t just _go_ places. Really, though, which one is trying to kill me? I’d have guessed Lucius, but Draco might be making another go at it.”  
  
“They is talking about terrible things at Hogwarts—"  
  
“Both of them, then?” — I paused thoughtfully — “Yes, of course, Malfoys always travel in packs.”  
  
“Dobby—"  
  
“Yes, thank you for this valuable information. If you’ll excuse me, I need to plan.”  
  
Pulling at his ears, Dobby popped away. That was one of the most helpful assassination attempts I’ve ever experienced.

* * *

“Tut, tut – hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac.”  
  
Lockhart sighed gustily, golden curls flopping with a dramatic shake of his head. His exasperation lasted only a moment, however, and he was soon back to grinning like a loon.  
  
The Weasley rolled his eyes, grumbling about frauds. Of course, the boy was far too dense to realize that it wasn’t his accomplishments that Lockhart was faking. It was his personality. After all, it is common for truly powerful wizards to hide their cunning behind a mask of harmless incompetence. Just look at Dumbledore.  
  
I, too, had once doubted Lockhart’s claims, for even I would hesitate to take on an entire island of vampires, no matter how many stakes I was using as hair curlers. Nevertheless, a small amount of research revealed that Lockhart was quite reputable.  
  
Besides, Dumbledore would hardly hire someone as idiotic as Lockhart pretended to be. No, he was clearly more than he appeared.  
  
Lockhart went on to prove his worth as a professor by releasing a batch of Cornish Pixies and hiding under a desk. By withholding support, he forced students to think on their feet and problem solve without relying on an authority figure to do everything for them.

This was _true_ Defense Against the Dark Arts.  
  
For the first time in decades, I feared that Dumbledore had hired a professor talented enough to break my curse. Gilderoy Lockhart would have to die.

* * *

I approached Hermione, Ron trailing at my heels. She was cheerfully chatting with Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor House. I found it telling that the ghost of Gryffindor had been violently murdered while the ghost of Slytherin was a violent murderer.  
  
“You shouldn’t let them upset you,” she said, “People are just awful when they’re in groups. They like to exclude people, you know, especially on technicalities. It makes them feel important, and it’s a well-known psychological phenomenon…”  
  
“I suppose,” Nick said morosely.  
  
Hermione reached out a hand to pat him on the shoulder, realized what she was doing, and yanked her hand back. She sniffed. “I’m quite certain the Headless Hunt isn’t nearly as fun as you’d think, anyway.”  
  
“Hermione, are you talking to ghosts?” I asked. “It’s useless, you know. They’re like paintings – not really sentient – so there’s no point bothering with them.”  
  
“But you spent three hours arguing with a painting just last week,” Ron very rudely interrupted.  
  
I glared at him. “Yes, and, if it was capable of changing its mind, it would have that realized I was right. We learned a valuable lesson about the idiocy of paintings, and I think we’ve all grown since then.”  
  
Hermione giggled, sharing a traitorous grin with Ron. “Yes, well, I was just speaking with Sir Nicholas about ghosts and their very rich culture.”  
  
“I can hear another Hermione rant coming on,” Ron groaned.  
  
She ignored him, going on excitedly. “He’s invited us to his two hundredth Death Day Party!”

* * *

“So we can go to a ghost party with rotted food but we can’t go to the Halloween Feast?” Ron whined.  
  
“Oh, hush, Ronald. You could have gone by yourself. Besides, Sir Nicholas’ Death Day Party was a wonderful learning experience,” Hermione chided.  
  
He snorted. “Yeah, I learned that I never want to go again.”  
  
 _“…rip…tear…kill…”_  
  
I stopped in surprise. The Basilisk? If she was slithering around, it meant that someone else had been meddling in _my_ Chamber of Secrets.  
  
 _“…time to kill…”_  
  
 _“NO!”_ I hissed, “ _Bad snake! No killing.”_  
  
Hermione glanced back. “Are you okay, Harry?”  
  
“Oh, yes, I’m perfectly alright. Just, erm, clearing my throat. Probably shouldn’t have tried the food at Nick’s party…”  
  
Shortly afterward, we stumbled upon a petrified cat and a bloody message telling everyone that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened.  
  
This was exactly like what I did in my sixth year, down to the curl of my S’s. This new “heir” was only a pale and pathetic imitation of my former glory.  
  
Filch accused me of being the Heir of Slytherin (technically true), Dumbledore got me out of trouble through the power of favoritism, and Hermione began a new research project.  
  
That night, I snuck into the girls’ loo and changed the password needed to enter the Chamber of Secrets.

* * *

I leaned up against the cauldron, glancing about the abandoned loo. Myrtle had long since disappeared down the toilet in tears. Her death was accidental, just a case of poor timing. I might have felt bad about it if she’d had the dignity to just die.  
  
“So, Hermione, you want to explain what we’re doing here?”  
  
She grinned, giving the potion a final stir and going into teacher mode. “This is Polyjuice Potion, or it will be in a month. It’ll let us sneak into the Slytherin Common Room and ask Malfoy if he’s the Heir of Slytherin.”  
  
I frowned. “Hermione, of course he’s the Heir of Slytherin. _Everyone’s_ the Heir of Slytherin.”  
  
She wilted, confusion wrinkling her brow. “Come again?”  
  
“Look, Slytherin lived a thousand years ago, right?”  
  
“Nine-hundred and ninety-four.”  
  
“Right. A long time. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but the wizarding population is kind of tiny. Everyone is related to everyone, so everyone’s related to Slytherin. In fact, the only people in the school who are not the Heirs of Slytherin are you and the other Muggleborns. Also, possibly Ron.”  
  
“Yeah!” the redhead yelled, sparking a wail from Myrtle’s toilet.  
  
“…Salazar had standards.”  
  
The grin melted off his Weasley face. He said, “But it’s still probably Malfoy, isn’t it? I mean, him and the other Slytherins are the only ones who believe in all that blood purity stuff.”  
  
I snorted. “If Malfoy were the Heir of Slytherin, he’d be bragging about it. All the time. He would be right here, in our faces, bragging.”  
  
“We’re in the girls’ loo,” Hermione said.  
  
“Like that would stop him. He would follow us into the girls’ loo _just_ to brag about it. I mean, honestly, this is Malfoy we’re talking about here. There are two things he mentions in every conversation: his father and his money. If he were the Heir of Slytherin, there would be three things he’d mention in _every_ conversation.”  
  
Hermione pouted. “So, that means we don’t need to brew an illegal potion with stolen ingredients, knock out three of our classmates, tie them up in a closet, sneak into the Slytherin Common Room, and interrogate Malfoy?”  
  
I gaped at her. “Was that your plan?”  
  
I fear that Hermione may be the most evil of us all. That is concerning since I am a retired Dark Lord.

* * *

I stormed to the girls’ loo, cloak snapping menacingly behind me. There had been another attack. This one targeted a student who aspired to be my minion, one day. Though I had no particular fondness for Creevey, I also didn’t have enough minions to start losing them to my own giant monsters.  
  
What was worse, however, was the imposter’s apparent ability to guess my password. I suppose _“Slytherin’s Locket”_ wasn’t the most unique password, so I changed it into something less obvious.

* * *

Malfoy’s summoned snake launched itself onto one of the students. Oh, sure, I could have stopped it, but I didn’t really care. Besides, our medicine is pretty good; he would probably be fine.  
  
The real question is why no one else did anything. There were plenty of people around – Severus, Lockhart, the other students – and, as far as they were concerned, I was just a stupid second year who most certainly couldn’t speak to snakes.  
  
Taking advantage of my opponent’s distraction, I disarmed him and hopped off the stage. I do so love winning.  
  
“Hey, Hermione,” I asked, “Who’s the kid with the snake on his face?”  
  
“Justin Finch-Flechley,” she murmured. My minions flinched at the boy’s screams.  
  
“Everything burns!” my…erm, Malfoy’s victim cried.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“He’s a Hufflepuff.”  
  
“Oh, that’s alright then.”

* * *

I had finally finished reading all of Lockhart’s books and had determined that I was doomed. He was talented in hand-to-hand combat, as evidenced by his battle against seven werewolves while wandless. He had mastered battle magic as well, tearing through smaller dark lords with ease and routinely using spells I’d never even heard of.  
  
Worse still were the skills that he had neglected to name. For instance, several of his fights had occurred simultaneously, while on opposite sides of the planet. Many would assume that this was a printing error or proof that Lockhart was lying, but I was not so naïve. To someone with my knowledge of dark magic, it was obvious that Lockhart was a master of the _Multis Me_ cloning spell, which was outlawed three centuries ago for inducing madness in its caster.  
  
He even hinted at this in the title of his newest book _Magical Me._  
  
I also worried that he would see through my Harry Potter persona. An actor of his caliber would no doubt recognize such actions in another.  
  
Lockhart constantly assigned me detention in order to better observe my actions. Even outside of class, he paid me particular attention, sending knowing smiles in my direction and giving me tips on how to be more famous. My few attempts to implement this advice ended disastrously, leading me to the conclusion that he was attempting to sabotage my reputation.  
  
I would have to orchestrate his demise very carefully.

* * *

How in Merlin's name did the imposter guess the password was Horcrux?!

* * *

“You’ve got to admit this is a load of bullocks,” Ron said, waving his arms around at the chaotic scene in front of us.  
  
Dwarves swarmed the Great Hall, chasing down errant students and occasionally tackling them to deliver often-humiliating Valentine's messages. I crouched beneath the Gryffindor table, hiding under my invisibility cloak, while Ron and Hermione sat in front of me.  
  
“It does seem a bit…silly,” Hermione hesitantly admitted.  
  
I said, “It’s a training exercise.”  
  
“Not every stupid thing Lockhart does is a training exercise, mate,” Ron foolishly declared.  
  
“That’s where you’re wrong. This, for instance, tests our stealth, and I am clearly winning.”  
  
“That’s because you’re using the cloak to cheat,” he said.  
  
I raised my eyebrows, realized I was too invisible to silently display my condescension, and sighed. “Using an advantage that no one else shares to surpass your competition is not cheating. It’s being intelligent. You would know that if you paid attention in Defense.”

* * *

I hissed the new password, _“Open. Open. Open. I am Lord Voldemort and you will open for me!”_  
  
How the imposter guessed that one, I couldn’t even imagine. Perhaps he was an accomplished Legilimens. I trudged through the Chamber, towards the fool who had dared to attack my new Bellatrix. Hermione was currently lying stiff in the Hospital Wing, unable to serve me for months!  
  
A hissed “ _Salazar”_ released the basilisk.  
  
 _“Ssstay behind me, and close your eyesss.”_  
  
 _“Yesss, Massster.”_  
  
I waited in the Chamber. Eventually, my fellow Parselmouth would come, and I would be there to catch him when he did. I settled into a cross-legged position and waited. It was very dark in the Chamber and impossible to tell if the castle had awoken, yet.  
  
“Tempus.”  
  
 _3:37 AM_  
  
There was a leak from the ceiling, splashing water directly onto my head. I moved. It followed. I sometimes hate this castle.  
  
“Tempus.”  
  
 _7:50 AM_  
  
Slytherin’s statue failed to respond to insults regarding his heritage, appearance, or ability. It did attack when I cast the Killing Curse at it, however, and proved fairly susceptible to blasting curses. I transfigured the mound of rubble into a chair, Slytherin’s scowling face hovering above my own.  
  
“Tempus.”  
  
 _1:15 PM_  
  
“ _I’m hungry_ ,” I said.  
  
The basilisk hissed, _“I haven’t eaten in three hundred years.”_  
  
 _“It’s been at least eighteen hours for me,”_ I commiserated. Sometimes, I think that no one understands my suffering as well as the basilisk.  
  
Really, what was wrong with this new Heir? He should be here, by now. It had been at least half a day. I hadn’t even changed the password! Still, I couldn’t just up and leave. I was invested, by Merlin, and I wasn’t going until the imposter was put in his place. My resolve was unwavering.  
  
“Tempus.”  
  
 _1:55 PM_  
  
“I’m still hungry…Wait, I have a brilliant idea,” I said. “All I need is a house-elf.”  
  
I smirked. “House-elf!”  
  
Nothing happened for several minutes. I muttered, “Alright, maybe I need a name, something stupid like Flimsy or Floppsy.”  
  
I looked around: Still no food-bearing slave. What was the name of that assassin, again? Ah, right. “Dobby!”  
  
The bedraggled creature popped in front of me, his eyes widening. “The Great Master Harry Potter sir is calling Dobby?”  
  
“Feed me,” I said.  
  
He came back after a few moments, several plates floating around him. My eyes lit up. “Is that duck?”  
  
“Master Lucy is wanting duck for dinner,” he said.  
  
I was impressed. “You stole from him?”

  
The house-elf shifted uncomfortably. “Dobby did not steal. Dobby just gave snack to very powerful guest.”  
  
I frowned. “But I’m not his guest, right now.”  
  
Dobby proceeded to slam his head against the ground. Shrugging, I dug into my meal, eating with all the table manners of a Weasley. Afterward, I looked down at where a very dazed Dobby sprawled on the stone.  
  
“Oh, right, and can you grab a peacock for my friend?” I gestured towards the basilisk.  
  
After that particular bit of entertainment, I settled down to wait more comfortably.  
  
“Tempus.”  
  
 _4:30 PM_  
  
Bored out of my mind, I drowsed under my invisibility cloak.

* * *

I awoke to hurried footsteps and squinted through the cloak’s starry cloth as a small, robed figure walked inside. The red hair was unmistakable. Whipping the cloak off dramatically, I leaped to my feet.  
  
“You!” I exclaimed. “I should have known. You Weasleys, always so righteous, always in Gryffindor, are the true heirs of Slytherin. You’ve lain in wait for generations, hiding your true cunning behind a veil of idiocy. But, now, I see you for the Pureblood fanatics you have always been.”  
  
The youngest Weasley gaped at my brilliant deductions. “…What?”  
  
I took a moment to smugly survey my opponent. The girl looked shocked. One pale hand had dropped her wand in surprise and her other clutched something to her chest. A book? I frowned. It looked familiar, though it was far too thin to be anything I’d read recently.  
  
“Oh, don’t feign innocence, Weasley. It’s obvious that you’re all Slytherins. After all, every Weasley has been in Gryffindor for generations. Even the Gryffindor family didn’t all go to Gryffindor! And your constant breeding is clearly a desperate attempt to produce Parseltongue from your impure blood.”  
  
The Weasley laughed. “You think _Ginny Weasley_ could open the Chamber of Secrets?”

Her eyes trailed across me languidly. “So you’re the great Harry Potter. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. My name is Tom Riddle.”

Suddenly, I recognized the book.  
  
“Diary?” I shouted. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”  
  
She (he?) hissed, “How dare you address me so disrespectfully? I am Lord Voldemort!”  
  
“You’re going to regret that name in a few years,” I said, “and I’m the real Lord Voldemort. You’re just my Horcrux.”  
  
Diary sneered. “You’re Lord Voldemort? No, I think I’m Voldemort.”  
  
I narrowed my eyes. No diary was going to defy me. “Well, at least I’m not in the body of a girl. I certainly don’t remember being confused about _that_ when I was in school.”  
  
“I’m only using her body-“  
  
I cut in, “Whoa, there. She’s only twelve. I don’t remember being confused about that, either.”  
  
His Weasley eyes flashed with fury. “You’ll regret that,” he hissed. With a smirk, he turned to the Basilisk.  
  
 _“Attack.”_  
  
“ _No, don’t do that,”_ I ordered in Parseltongue.  
  
The Basilisk has no way of identifying the “one true heir of Slytherin.” It’s a snake, not some magical lineage device. As such, it follows any command given in Parseltongue.  
  
Diary glared. “ _Attack him!”_  
  
 _“Don’t do that,”_ I ordered. _“In fact, never attack me. And don’t listen to any of his orders, either.”_  
  
“That isn’t fair,” he grumbled.  
  
I sighed, wishing my younger self was less of an idiot. “Diary, we are a _dark lord_.”  
  
Diary snatched up the Weasley girl’s wand. “I don’t need the Basilisk for this, anyway. I wonder…if we were to fight, who would win?”  
  
I glared. “Me.”  
  
“Really? I don’t think so.”  
  
“You stop this nonsense and get back in your diary, young man.”  
  
The Weasley girl smirked. “Of course, you could always join me. I might let you rule at my feet -“  
  
“Avada Kedavra,” I said, pointing my wand at the diary. The Weasley collapsed as the book glowed green and the soul inside screamed. The Horcrux was destroyed. Or released, or something like that.  
  
It was a necessary evil. I had enough competition without another me running around.

* * *

I had assumed that, upon the destruction of my soul containers, I would notice. They’re tying me to this world, after all, so I should feel _something_ when they disappeared.

Yet I did not.  
  
This meant that all of my Horcruxes could be destroyed and I would have no idea.  
  
That is a problem.

* * *

I dumped the Weasley in the girl’s loo. She’d wake up in a few hours, exhausted and suffering from amnesia. Obviously, she’d come up with some explanation and forget about it, in typical Weasley fashion.  
  
I threw my invisibility cloak on as I hurried out of the loo and snuck back into Gryffindor tower. I’d never understand why the portrait would let students pass who were clearly out after curfew and invisible. The foolish portrait would probably let a Death Eater in, if one knew the password…Come to think of it, she was letting the Dark Lord in, now, so that would actually be a step down.  
  
I crept into the Second Year boys’ dormitory, slipped off the invisibility cloak, and threw open the Weasley’s curtains.  
  
“Spiders!” he cried, jolting forward. He relaxed upon realizing that I did not, in fact, possess eight eyes. “Oh, Harry. You’re back.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” I grumbled. “Did you avoid suspicion, as I ordered?”  
  
Ron grinned. “Yeah, I told everyone you were sick.”  
  
“And no one questioned that?”  
  
“Nah, McGonagall just said you should go to the Hospital Wing if it got bad. Dean, Seamus, and Neville thought it was weird they never saw you, but I just said you were sleeping under your invisibility cloak again…”  
  
“That _is_ something I would do,” I muttered.  
  
“…and no one wanted to wake you after last time,” Ron said, shivering slightly.  
  
“I don’t know why you’re still complaining about that. The scars weren’t even permanent.”  
  
“Where were you, anyway?” Ron followed me to my trunk, where I tossed my cloak.  
  
“The Chamber of Secrets. As usual, I solved _everything_.”

* * *

I’d hoped that would be the end of it since Dumbledore and Hagrid were kicked out of the school on the same day I went hunting for the imposter. Hermione’s petrification was the last of them, and they’d arrested the man who was previously blamed. Everything seemed perfectly resolved, to me.  
  
I’d feel bad about using Hagrid as a scapegoat, but he did almost burn down the Forbidden Forest, the previous year.

Come to think of it, I didn’t feel guilty about my previous actions, either.

Hagrid wasn’t _technically_ expelled for being the Heir of Slytherin. He was expelled for keeping a man-eating spider in the school. Which, to be fair, he did.  
  
Unfortunately, the groundskeeper’s obvious guilt was not enough to stop the incompetent fools at the Ministry from nearly ruining my magical education. Again.  
  
My minion and I tracked down Professor McGonagall, the acting headmistress, in her office.  
  
“You can’t close the school!” I exclaimed, the Weasley echoing me.  
  
McGonagall’s lips thinned. “The Board of Governors has determined that Hogwarts is no longer safe for students.”  
  
“There hasn’t been an attack in weeks. I’m sure we’re fine,” I said.  
  
“Mr. Potter,” she snapped. “There is a deadly monster in the school.”  
  
“It can’t be that deadly if it didn’t kill anyone,” I argued.  
  
“Petrifications are no laughing matter, and it’s only prudent to close the school before the monster kills a student, as it did fifty years ago.”  
  
I snorted. “One death every fifty years? We lose more students than that to the moving staircase.”  
  
Ron gaped at me. “We do?”  
  
“What do you think happened to the Perks girl?” I asked. It really was a wonder Ron hadn’t accidentally strangled himself, which I’d like to add would set his death toll equal to my basilisk’s.  
  
McGonagall sighed. “Any death is too great a risk.”  
  
“But we caught the Heir, already,” I whined.  
  
She frowned. “It has only been three weeks, Mr. Potter. There is no proof that we’ve caught the Heir.”  
  
“But everyone knows that it’s Hagrid’s fault.”

Honestly, if we weren’t going to blame him, why arrest the oaf at all?  
  
Professor McGonagall sighed heavily. “The school is closing, Mr. Potter. I’d suggest you get used to the idea. Now, please leave my office. I have work to do.”  
  
I stormed from the office, Ron at my heels like a good minion. “How dare they? As if they can close _my_ school without my approval…Fine, they want a monster; I’ll give them a monster.”  
  
“Um, Harry?”  
  
“Quiet, Ron. I’m scheming,” I said.  
  
After a few moments, I worked out my plan. “We need to go into the Forbidden Forest and bring back an Acromantula.”  
  
Ron frowned. “A what?”  
  
“A giant spider.”  
  
“What?! But why?”  
  
“To stop the school from closing down, of course,” I said.  
  
“I thought you said you took care of everything.” His Weasley mind struggled to keep up with my brilliance.  
  
“No, no, I just took care of the Heir. You clearly weren’t paying attention,” I said breezily.  
  
“But-“  
  
I huffed in annoyance. “Let me put this simply: To keep the school open, we need to kill Slytherin’s monster. The monster is in the forest. To kill it, we have to take it in the school.”  
  
There, that was a close enough approximation of the truth. Most importantly, it was the explanation that would convince my minion to assist me, or at least keep him too confused to argue.  
  
Ron shrugged. “Okay.”  
  
“Alright, we’re agreed then. We go into the forest tonight. How is your Stunning Spell?”  
  
“I never learned the Stunning Spell,” he said.  
  
“Then you get to be bait,” I said.  
  
He was always going to be bait, but I figured he’d agree more easily if he thought it was his fault.

* * *

“Erm, mate, are you sure about this?” Ron asked, trudging through the Forbidden Forest.  
  
I floated next to him on a school broomstick and sighed loudly to ensure it would be heard through my invisibility cloak. “Ron, when have I ever been wrong about anything?”  
  
“What about –“  
  
I quickly interrupted. “That was a rhetorical question.”  
  
“I still think this is a bad idea,” he muttered. “Spiders are bloody terrifying.”  
  
“Didn’t you pay attention to the Hat? Gryffindors aren’t afraid of things. If you wanted to be afraid of things, you should have gone to Hufflepuff.”  
  
Ron nodded sullenly. No one wants to be a Hufflepuff.

We followed the spiders deep into the forest, and, at last, found one of the larger acromantulas. From black-furred leg to yellow eye, it was about the size of a horse, its fang as long as my arm. That should be intimidating enough.  
  
I whispered, “Ron, that’s it.”  
  
“I-it’s so big,” he stuttered.  
  
“You have to get its attention,” I said. “Wave your arms or something.”  
  
Ron stood completely still, utterly failing at fading into the greenery. Hufflepuff. I cleared my throat and yelled, “HEY, SPIDER! I, THE REDHEADED BOY TO YOUR LEFT, AM VERY DELICIOUS!”  
  
Was that so hard? The acromantula turned, clicking, and scuttling towards Ron. He ran away, the spider hot on his trail and me flying beside them. Demonstrating admirable stamina, the Weasley made it all the way through the forest and well onto the grounds before panting, “Harry, where should I go?”  
  
I smirked beneath my cloak. “The Defense classroom, of course. Lockhart will take care of it.”

* * *

“I would like to take a moment to commemorate the loss of Professor Lockhart who died courageously fighting Slytherin’s Acromantula,” Dumbledore said.  
  
I bowed my head along with the rest of the Great Hall. Lockhart was a brilliant man and a better teacher. It was a pity he chose to oppose me.  
  
After no more than a second, Dumbledore clapped his hands and cheerfully remarked. “Now, let’s move on to happier matters. It’s time to award the House Cup!”  
  
I listened raptly. Hufflepuff was in fourth place – naturally – with Gryffindor well above and Ravenclaw slightly ahead. Slytherin was set to be the winner.  
  
Dumbledore sighed. “Yet I find myself once again needing to award points for special services performed for the school. To Mr. Ronald Weasley and Mr. Harry Potter, for locating Slytherin’s monster and saving the school, I award one hundred points…each.”  
  
There were shocked gasps and mutinous mutters from Slytherin.  
  
“This is ridiculous!” I cried. “You’re not even trying to hide your favoritism.”  
  
“Now, Mr. Potter…” Dumbledore said.  
  
“No! I refuse to accept this.”  
  
“Twenty points from Gryffindor for talking out of turn,” Snape drawled.  
  
I said, “Thank you! At least someone is trying to be fair here. Until this is righted, I declare a hunger strike.”  
  
With that, I strode from the Great Hall, doors slamming shut behind me with an echoing boom. Gilderoy Lockhart would have approved.

* * *

“Harry, I brought you some food,” Hermione called, pushing into the boys’ dormitory. “I think it’s very noble what you’re doing for the Slytherins, but you really shouldn’t neglect your –“  
  
She paused upon noticing the plate of turkey, tin of biscuits, tub of gravy, bowl of salad, various desserts, and assorted other food items hovering in the air around me. “…Oh, you’re eating.”  
  
I said, “Of course I’m eating. I can’t just starve myself every time Dumbledore does something immoral. I’d be starving myself all the time.”  
  
Hermione frowned. “But you said you were going on a hunger strike.”  
  
“Yes, I definitely said that.” I took a bite of biscuit, taking care to swallow before speaking again. I’m not a Weasley.  
  
Hermione sighed and said, “Where did you get all of this, anyway?”  
  
“Ah, want some for yourself, eh?” – I grinned – “Never let it be said that I am not a generous ma-friend. Come Dobby!”  
  
The house-elf popped beside me. “Master Harry Potter sir is wanting more?”  
  
Hermione gaped at the hideous creature. “Are you okay?”  
  
I chewed my mouthful of turkey thoughtfully before answering. “Well, it’s a bit on the dry side, and I wouldn’t mind a fork. But I suppose I’ll survive.”  
  
“No, not you,” she snapped and turned to Dobby as her voice softened, “Hi, I’m Hermione. What’s your name?”  
  
“Dobby is Dobby,” he said nervously, pulling at his ragged pillowcase.  
  
“What exactly are you?” she whispered.  
  
“Dobby is a house-elf.”  
  
She smiled widely, as if interacting with a small child. “And how did you get all this food? Did you make it yourself?”  
  
“Dobby is good cook. Dobby took it from the kitchens for the amazing, very kind Harry —"  
  
“He stole it from the Malfoys,” I added helpfully.  
  
Dobby’s eye twitched violently, and he set about trying to bash his head in with the biscuit tin. I scowled. “Hey, I was using that!”  
  
The house-elf helpfully switched to slamming himself against the floor.  
  
Hermione said, “Please stop doing that!”  
  
I said, “Hermione, there’s really no use trying to talk him out of it. He’ll probably just hurt himself more, later, for making you go to the trouble.”  
  
“But why?” Hermione sniffled.  
  
I shrugged. “That’s just how house-elves are.”  
  
Honestly, I think they may actually _like_ that sort of thing, but there are some things you just don’t tell a twelve-year-old girl. I do have some decency.  
  
She bit her lip but dropped the subject. “There was something else I wanted to ask you, actually. I just didn’t have time what with making up all the classes I’d missed.”  
  
“And getting O’s in all of them, I’m sure,” I said. There was a loud crack.  
  
“Is he…?”  
  
I said, “It was probably the floor. Dobby, fix the floor before you leave.”  
  
“Yes, Harry Potter sir,” he squeaked.  
  
She continued. “Um, alright then. Well, I was just wondering about Slytherin’s monster. I was looking it up in the library before my petrification, and I was really quite certain it was a basilisk.”  
  
I laughed for a good, long while. When Hermione’s ideas seemed sufficiently mocked, I said, “Hermione, that is completely ridiculous. Do you know how rare those are? Besides, it was definitely an acromantula. Everyone saw it.”  
  
“Well, I saw the creature’s reflection in my mirror, and it only had two eyes.”  
  
“Are you sure? It was a pretty big spider, Hermione. You might have only seen two eyes, but there were six more above them.”  
  
She shook her head. “And I’ve read _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ twice now. Acromantulas don’t petrify people. Basilisks do.”  
  
I reached forward to pat her on the shoulder. “It was an enchanted spider, obviously.”  
  
“I guess that makes sense,” she said in a voice that implied that it really didn’t make sense at all. “I still can’t believe Hagrid wanted to kill Muggleborns, though.”  
  
I shook my head regretfully. “Honestly, I’m surprised it took so long to arrest him. He did the same thing fifty years ago. Fifty years of biding his time, pretending to be an idiot, only to finally strike…we should all hope to be as Slytherin as Hagrid.”  
  
“Why would we want to be Slytherin at all?” Hermione asked.  
  
I smiled, hoping it wouldn’t twitch too noticeably. “That’s not important right now. Dobby, bring us cakes!”  
  
“Yesh, ‘arry Potta shr,” the house-elf slurred, popping away.

* * *

My two months of exile in the Muggle world were not as terrible as they might have been.  
  
The Dursleys continued to acknowledge my superiority and ability to injure them at any time, and my minions kept me well informed of news in Wizarding Britain. During my trips to proper civilization, I began tentatively researching Horcruxes and similar rituals. It turns out that making them solely based on the information obtained from one crumbling tome was _probably_ a bad idea.  
  
Most importantly, however, it allowed me time to work on my newest project:

_Sporting with Spiders,_ the final installation in Lockhart’s book series.

Sure, the brilliant adventurer wouldn’t be writing it, and all the royalties would go directly to me. But I think that’s how Lockhart would have wanted it.


	4. Harry Potter vs. Remus Lupin (Pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries to avoid getting his soul sucked out by Dementors, encourages Hermione in her first atrocity, and faces his greatest fear.

I was concerned about my Horcruxes. If a Weasley was capable of stealing one of them, then they weren’t nearly as safe as I had presumed. My first instinct was to gather up my poor soul pieces and never again let them out of my sight. Unfortunately, after many hours of deliberation, I decided that I couldn’t risk hiding five Dark artifacts under my bed, at least not with Dumbledore’s keen eyes always upon me.  
  
Yet, after destroying Diary, I was left with only four Horcruxes, two less than I’d originally intended. For my own peace of mind, I would have to create a new one. Now, I just needed to find someone I wanted to kill.  
  
That shouldn’t be too hard. Used to happen all the time.

* * *

I skimmed the Prophet, whose title proclaimed the escape of Sirius Black.  
  
“My right-hand man, hm. You think I’d remember something like that.”  
  
I shrugged. I’d certainly forgotten more important things over the past twelve years. Besides, the Blacks were a Dark family, so of course he was one of mine.  
  
It was a pity to lose him. After all, not every minion could escape from Azkaban. That’s the sort of talent that can conquer a nation.

I almost regretted abandoning my previous activities. But not quite.

* * *

“Dementors!” I ranted. “What could possibly convince Dumbledore to bring dementors into the school?”  
  
Hermione said, “It’s just to keep us safe from Sirius Black, Harry.”  
  
“Right, right, _of course,_ it is. They’re protecting us from an emaciated, wandless convict who _might_ want to kill some of us by hiring a hundred Dark creatures that _definitely_ want to eat all of our souls. How ever did I forget?”  
  
Dementors are terrifying. I might have cut up and scattered my soul, but I assure you, I’m quite attached to it.  
  
I really needed to make that Horcrux. Surely no one would miss a Weasley or two?

* * *

“The grim!” Trelawney cried, skeletal hands fluttering around her mouth. “You’re in grave danger, Mr. Potter. Very grave danger.”  
  
“I’m always in grave danger,” I said. It wasn’t like I sought out these things, precisely. It’s more that getting what I want often involves dangerous situations, and I happen to be immortal.  
  
“You could die,” she insisted.  
  
One of the Gryffindor girls, probably Lavender, shrieked.  
  
I snorted. “Not likely.”  
  
“I’ve heard you do this every year,” Hermione snapped. “Tell some poor student they’re going to die and scare them. But they never do.”  
  
“Come to think of it,” I mumbled. “Why don’t you ever predict the deaths that actually occur? Like the Perks girl.”  
  
Hermione sighed. “Harry, Sally-Anne moved.”  
  
“Yes, that’s what they told us,” I said, patting her reassuringly on the arm. “Of course, most of those deaths are First or Second Years, who naturally wouldn’t have your class. I imagine you wouldn’t even see them except in the Great Hall…Wait, is _that_ why you never come to meals?”  
  
“I…” Trelawney was taken aback at my insight. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. A prophecy, once spoken, can never be averted you know. And it’s such a terrible thing to see those poor, doomed children. Now, back to your teacups, everyone. I can sense your third eyes fluttering shut!”

* * *

“We don’t have Dark Magic!” Ron yelped.  
  
I suppressed an exasperated sigh. “Ron, all pure-blood families have Dark Magic. If you don’t know about yours, it’s because your family doesn’t trust you.”  
  
Horror filled his Weasley eyes. “Why wouldn’t they trust me?”  
  
“You’re the sixth son, Ron. That’s easily three more sons than they need. They won’t tell you a thing until you’ve proven yourself worthy.”  
  
He leaned forward, desperate to learn more. “How do I do that?”  
  
I thought for a moment. “Have you tried asking? That would show that you’re smart enough to know about these things.”  
  
Ron grinned, clapping me on the back. “Thanks, mate. You’re the best.”

* * *

A Howler chased Ron out of the Great Hall, spitting smoke and screeching.  
  
“HOW DARE YOU ASK US ABOUT DARK MAGIC! JUST WHAT EXACTLY ARE YOU DOING IN THAT SCHOOL, RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY? WHY, I SHOULD…”   
  
I bit into a piece of bacon, contemplating the very public response. A brilliant ploy. The Weasley matriarch was cunning, indeed.

* * *

“Can we go back inside, now?” I whined.  
  
“No,” Ron said.  
  
He had forced me to attend a Quidditch match because I _owed_ him for the Howler incident. The intricacies of maintaining a friendship never ceased to baffle me. I’d usually not bother with such things. However, the boy’s loyalty depended upon his delusion that he was my “best mate,” and it would take months to break in a new Weasley.  
  
I groaned. “But it’s pouring rain!”  
  
“So what? You’re not even wet.”  
  
Hermione asked, “Why is that, anyway?”  
  
“I’m Harry Potter,” I said.  
  
“That doesn’t mean any-“  
  
“Oh, look, the game’s starting.”  
  
Hermione fell into a disgruntled but obedient silence while the players zipped about in the rain.  
  
Quidditch, such a ridiculous game. It’s entirely reliant upon the skill of the seeker, unless one team is ridiculously outmatched, in which case the seeker is superfluous.  
  
Furthermore, the Quidditch games’ points are far too tied into the House Cup, which irked me greatly during my first time as a student. There I was answering questions, acing tests, charming professors, and earning loads of points, only for one clumsy seeker to ruin our chances of winning.  
  
I do not lose.  
  
Therefore, I convinced the Ravenclaw and Slytherin seekers to sit on the field for a week while their chasers racked up so many points that one of our Houses would win even if the teachers blatantly cheated in favor of the others. That was the first year I won the House Cup for Slytherin and the reason that Hogwarts games are no longer allowed to last more than three days.  
  
Pleased at my victory over foolishness, I’d cheerfully gone back to ignoring the sport.  
  
“This is boring,” I said.  
  
Ron’s face wrinkled with the effort of thinking. “What do you mean? Didn’t you see that dive by Spinnet?”  
  
“Yes, yes, I’m sure it was very nice. I didn’t notice because it is _pouring rain_. It’s also freezing out here.”  
  
Hermione asked, “Didn’t you cast a warming charm?”  
  
“Of course I cast a warming charm.”  
  
“I did, too,” she said slowly. “So why is it so cold?”  
  
I peered through the thick rain and the mist of my icy breath until I finally spotted the cloak of a dementor. I could feel misery creeping into my already frustrated mind, turning the world even dimmer than it already was.  
  
Dementors both cause and feed off of unhappiness. Trying to dredge up happiness in their fog is insanely difficult and bound to work for only a fleeting period.  
  
It’s far easier to grow angry. How dare they make you sad!  
  
That way, they’ll focus on your depressed companions while leaving you alone. If you haven’t escaped by the time everyone else is eaten, you deserve death.  
  
Unfortunately, blinding fury is not conducive to good decision-making.

* * *

“Wow, Harry, I can’t believe you charged a dementor!” Ron said.  
  
At the same time, Hermione said, “I can’t believe you would do something so stupid!”  
  
“Dementors have no natural predators, so they have no idea how to react to aggression,” I said. Admittedly, this hadn’t occurred to me at the time, but it certainly explained the creature’s terrified flight.  
  
“It’s a good thing Professor Lupin cast a Patronus before you got hurt,” Hermione continued.  
  
“I could’ve taken it.”

* * *

Only thirteen years old and Hermione Granger was already planning her first genocide. While I admired her precocious cruelty – I hadn’t even dreamed of such things until I was at least sixteen – I just had to ask…  
  
“Hermione, why do you hate house-elves so much?”  
  
She poked her head out from under the couch where she’d been hiding a malformed mitten. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“I’m not judging,” I hastily assured her, “just curious.”  
  
“Harry, I don’t hate house-elves,” she said. There was no particular reason for her to lie. It was nearly midnight, and the common room was empty of eavesdroppers.  
  
“I’m not sure why else you’d be doing that,” I said, gesturing towards the hat she’d stuffed under a table leg.  
  
Hermione stood up proudly and proclaimed, “I’m trying to free them!”  
  
I blinked, attempting to make sense of her logic. “…You do realize that house-elves die when you free them, right?”  
  
Impressive actress that she was, Hermione flipped from cheerful to threatening tears in an instant. “W-what?”  
  
“I mean, I sort of thought you knew,” I said. “Free elves just lie down and die. They don’t eat or sleep...”  
  
I’d seen it happen once, and, let me tell you, it was _hilarious_.  
  
She sniffled. “I, um, didn’t know. I went to the library, but there weren’t many books talking about them. I suppose one book said not to free elves, but it was also full of t-torture techniques and, oh, it’s all so awful!”  
  
She frantically began picking up the knitwear she’d hidden around the room.  
  
I hummed thoughtfully. “Really, I’m not sure why you thought leaving clothes around would help at all. They do our laundry.”  
  
Hermione paused. “I hadn’t thought of that.”  
  
She looked down at the clothing piled in her arms. “I don’t suppose you want a hat or something?”  
  
I chuckled and placed an arm around my minion’s shoulder. “Hermione, not even the house-elves want your hats.”

* * *

My classmates are so boring.  
  
Our latest Defense teacher had acquired a boggart – a creature capable of showing one’s greatest fear. But what did it show? The murder of their loved ones? The destruction of all they held dear? My own impressive self, either as Lord Voldemort or Harry Potter?  
  
No, of course not. That would be entertaining. Instead, I had to suffer through ten straight minutes of acromantulas.  
  
Lupin frowned as Ron’s boggart skidded past on roller skates. “Another spider?”  
  
“One killed our last Defense professor,” Hermione informed him.  
  
“It also petrified several students,” I added.  
  
Lupin said, “Acromantulas can’t do that.”  
  
“It was enchanted by Salazar Slytherin,” I said as the boggart morphed into a slightly taller, longer-fanged version of its previous form.  
  
Acromantulas really aren’t that frightening. It wouldn’t have even succeeded in slaying Lockhart if I hadn’t hit him with a tripping jinx at a crucial moment.

Therefore, I decided to add a little interest to the proceedings by revealing my own boggart.  
  
Honestly, I wasn’t certain what form the creature would take. Oh, sure, I had reasonable concerns, such as having my soul consumed by a dementor. Still, none of them would send me into a panic. Even death seemed less daunting after I’d successfully conquered it.  
  
I stepped forward, shoving Lupin aside when he tried to block my path.  
  
The boggart leapt at me, its black legs turning blue and melding into robes. White fangs lengthened into a beard, and the creature’s two remaining eyes twinkled.  
  
“Dumbledore,” I hissed, raising my wand.  
  
He chuckled, a sickening sound. “Dear boy, did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”  
  
I froze. “What?”  
  
“You’re just the same as the Dark Lord was at your age.”  
  
I shrank away, insisting, “No. You’re wrong.”  
  
“Riddiculus!” Lupin said when he noticed my panic.  
  
A dozen tiny bows appeared in Dumbledore’s beard. A few of my more simple-minded classmates started giggling. But I wasn’t so naïve. He had worn his beard in a similar manner during my first raid of Diagon Alley.  
  
“I would have to be a fool not to see it,” Dumbledore said, “and I think we both know I’m not the fool I seem to be.”  
  
“R-riddiculus!” I cried. His robes turned to a pink dress, the frilly hem resting above his wrinkled, hairy knees. But, no, that’s exactly the sort of thing he would wear, hoping to catch his enemies off guard.  
  
He smiled with false benevolence. “Don’t we, T–?”  
  
“RIDDICULUS!”  
  
The boggart fell, eyes dull and maggots crawling from his beard. I laughed hysterically.  
  
“He’s dead,” I gasped. “Oh, thank Merlin, he’s finally dead.”  
  
The boggart darted over to Hermione next, turning to a skeletal house-elf wearing nothing but a pair of poorly-knitted mittens.

* * *

I sat in front of Dumbledore’s desk, eyeing the various knickknacks surrounding me and wondering how many were secretly weapons. Though the headmaster seemed as serene as ever, I’m fairly certain his phoenix was glaring at me.  
  
“Lemon drop, Harry?” Dumbledore asked.  
  
“No thank you, sir,” I said, unwilling to consume its still-unknown poison.  
  
“Do you know why you’re here?”  
  
My hand twitched towards my wand as I stifled the urge to flee. “No, I have no idea.”  
  
“Ah” – his eyes began twinkling menacingly – “I was just speaking with Professor Lupin –“  
  
“I have an idea, now,” I blurted out. He had finally put the pieces together.  
  
I rambled on, “It’s the boggart, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you, I am _not_ afraid of you. That would be incredibly ridiculous since you are so obviously a kind, completely genuine protector of the Light. Practically a grandfather to me.”  
  
“Really? I had no idea you thought so well of me,” Dumbledore asked, leaning forward.  
  
I nodded and tried to look very thirteen, possibly younger. “Oh yes! I’m thinking that my greatest fear is really of terrifyingly powerful wizards who know where I sleep. You’re more a metaphor for that.”  
  
“I would think Voldemort would be a more fitting example,” Dumbledore said.  
  
“Yes, well, I don’t know what he looks like,” I said. “Also, I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”  
  
“I only wish I were so certain,” he sighed.  
  
“What do you mean, sir?” I squeaked. I was doomed.  
  
“On the night Voldemort was vanquished, I’m afraid he didn’t die. In fact, I believe he came to Hogwarts two years ago.”  
  
Five steps to the door. Dumbledore was old and his reflexes weren’t the best. I could probably make it, so long as the phoenix didn’t go after me. If I ducked around a corner long enough to put on the invisibility cloak, I would probably be alright.  
  
He said, “You seem nervous, Harry.”  
  
“I, um, don’t like being called into a teacher’s office?” I said.  
  
If I started running now, I could probably catch him by surprise. Unless that was what he expected me to do. Curse him and his elaborate traps…  
  
“I think I understand what your greatest fear is,” he said gravely. “You believe that you’re like Voldemort. Don’t you?”  
  
“Uh…” I wasn’t sure what facial expression would be appropriate for the occasion, but I was fairly certain that the terror currently overwhelming my features was not a good choice.  
  
The old wizard chuckled. “Allow me to set your mind at ease. You are nothing like Lord Voldemort.”  
  
I gaped. “Really?”  
  
“He was a cold, cruel child with no friends.”  
  
In my defense, I was very devoted to my studies, and Dumbledore is exaggerating. Lots of people liked me. Except for him.  
  
Dumbledore continued, “He would never have gone to protect the Stone or set off into the Forbidden Forest to save his classmates from Slytherin’s monster.”  
  
Admittedly, I didn’t do either of those things, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.  
  
“…Also” – his twinkle intensified – “I have it on good authority that he hated Quidditch.”  
  
I forced a smile. “Wow, we really _are_ nothing alike. I love Quidditch. If only I wasn’t bullocks on a broom, I’d have joined the team by now.”  
  
“I’m sure you would have,” he chuckled. “Are you certain you don’t want a lemon drop?”  
  
“Very. I, um, should probably be getting back to my friends now. Goodbye, Headmaster.”  
  
I left as quickly as I could without making it obvious that I was fleeing. Either I had miraculously escaped Dumbledore’s suspicion – for now – or he was just toying with me, hinting that he would leave me alone so long as I remained an amiable, Quidditch-obsessed Gryffindor.  
  
I wondered if suffering under whatever Dark Magic Dumbledore possessed would be less painful.

* * *

“Harry, what are you still doing up here?” Hermione whispered, nose wrinkled at the heavy perfume and smoke that filled Trelawney’s classroom.  
  
“Trying to open my third eye.”  
  
The first time around, I’d dismissed Divination as unnecessary. To my great distress, that seemingly unimportant gap in my knowledge led to my downfall, short-lived as it was.

  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re buying into all this tripe. Trelawney is obviously a fraud.”  
  
I smiled. Sometimes I forgot how little our group encyclopedia really knew.  
  
“ _Professor_ Trelawney,” I corrected, mimicking her tone.  
  
Though I teased her about it, I was glad to see this rebellious streak. It proved that she was waking up and seeing authority figures for what they were:  
  
Idiots.  
  
Upon closer observation, I had cast aside my early assumption that Hermione was this generation’s Bellatrix. Her obsession with rules, goody-two-shoes personality, intelligence, and hidden cruelty were far more reminiscent of my younger self.  
  
Hermione pursed her lips. “Really, Harry, she hardly counts as a professor. She doesn’t teach anything. At least not anything useful. You don’t really believe that you’re going to die, do you?”  
  
Technically, I already had.  
  
“Of course, not, Hermione,” I assured her, squinting into the mists of my crystal ball.  
  
Hermione huffed and stormed out. Her robes billowed behind her as she disappeared into the smoke of Trelawney’s poorly ventilated room. She certainly had the theatrics of a Dark Lord.

* * *

Perhaps I should use Longbottom for my Horcrux.  
  
He had yet to swear an oath of unending loyalty, and Merlin forbid if the prophecy was correct and I’d picked the wrong child.

It wouldn’t be hard to cover up. I could pretend it was a Potions accident or something. Everyone would believe that.  
  
Except, no, much as it pained me to admit it, Longbottom was as integral to Slytherin’s House Cup victory as I was. Such a resource should not be wasted frivolously.

* * *

“Since I am substituting for Professor Lupin for the seventh time in as many months, I will preemptively inform you that our topic next month will once again be werewolves,” Severus said dourly.  
  
“Can’t we do something else?” Ron groaned.  
  
“Ten points from Gryffindor for questioning a teacher.”  
  
I raised my hand. “I don’t suppose we’ll learn how to kill them? I feel like I know a lot about werewolves but am ill-equipped to destroy one.”  
  
Severus smiled thinly. “Yes, I do believe that will be the topic of our next lesson. Good question, Potter…Twenty points from Gryffindor.”  
  
Ron flailed his arms around in confusion, threatening to knock over my inkwell. “But you said it was a _good_ question!”  
  
“Ten more points for disrespect,” Severus said, sweeping out of the room. I tried not to look too obviously pleased.  
  
“Snape’s a git,” Ron said.  
  
I shook my head, sighing. “Well, you can hardly blame him – what with his condition and all…”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“He’s obviously a werewolf,” I said.  
  
“Oh, Harry, that’s ridiculous,” Hermione huffed.  
  
I raised a hand to silence her objections. “No need to cover for him. This is clearly a cry for help.”  
  
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Seamus Finnegan said. “Snape’s a werewolf?”  
  
“Of course he is. That’s why he’s been teaching about them every time he substitutes. It’s all he knows.”  
  
“He does seem to know an awful lot about werewolves,” Longbottom mumbled, looking a bit green.  
  
The class exploded into discussion, and I made sure to drag Hermione into the hallway before she finally exclaimed, “You don’t seriously believe that Professor Snape is a werewolf?!”  
  
“No, Hermione, that would be ridiculous,” I said.  
  
“Then why would you say something like that? People are absolutely awful about werewolves. Do you know what that kind of rumor could do to his reputation?”  
  
“Yes, which is why I don’t appreciate him trying to out Lupin.”  
  
She looked startled. “You know about that?”  
  
“Snape’s been teaching about werewolves for months, and Lupin’s gone every full moon. I’m not an idiot,” I said.  
  
While I was growing concerned about my classmates’ mental abilities, the truth is that I suspected Lupin long before his first class absence. You see, several of my minions were werewolves back when I was Lord Voldemort. I know the signs well.  
  
“Oh,” Hermione murmured.  
  
“And I’m honestly offended that Snape is so intent upon ruining his colleague’s life. Werewolves are perfectly reasonable people, so long as they’re taking the proper potion. This rumor will provide a plausible explanation for Snape’s actions and help to hide Lupin’s secret.”  
  
She beamed. “That’s very noble –“  
  
“But, mostly, I thought it would be funny,” I finished.


	5. Harry Potter vs. Remus Lupin (Pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Trio goes hunting for unicorns but finds a werewolf instead.

“We are breaking so many rules right now,” Hermione fretted. “Out after curfew, out of bounds, walking around in the Forbidden Forest…”  
  
Ron rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Hermione.”  
  
“This is a real problem, Ronald!” she cried. “Oh, and that isn’t even getting into the morality of this…”  
  
“We’re hunting unicorns,” I said. “What could possibly be immoral about that?”  
  
“Hunting,” she said grimly as we trudged through the forest.  
  
“Well, it’s not like we’re killing them. Would you feel better if I said we were _looking_ for unicorns?”  
  
She huffed. “I don’t know why we’re doing this in the first place.”  
  
I heaved a heavy sigh. “We’ve been over this. Hagrid burned down half of the Forbidden Forest a couple of years ago with his evil dragon. That means we’re twice as likely to find unicorns.”  
  
“But _why_?”  
  
I abruptly stopped walking. Ron oafishly bumped into me, possibly because I was once again using my invisibility cloak as a regular cloak. I stared at my favorite minion. “Are you telling me you _don’t_ want a unicorn? Dear Merlin, Hermione, what kind of little girl are you? Do you even have a soul?”  
  
She seemed unsure of how to respond, descending into sullen silence. I grinned as we continued our walk through the forest. “Now, let’s go over the plan. Ron, you’ll be bait.”  
  
“I don’t think I like being bait,” Ron said, glancing at the shadows in search of man-eating spiders.  
  
“It’s only a unicorn. Don’t be a Hufflepuff,” I said.  
  
Attempting to lend some degree of comfort, I reached over to pat him on the shoulder. He shrieked. Ah right, my arm was still invisible because of the cloak. I’d take it off, but it was bound to wear down before graduation, so I hoped to get some use from it while I still could.  
  
“Can’t Hermione be bait?” Ron whined.  
  
“No, unicorns only come to the pure of heart. She doesn’t have a soul, remember?”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione snapped. “Really, why is having a unicorn so important, anyway?”  
  
I sighed and reminded myself once again that my companions were still very young and naïve. “One day, Hermione, you’re going to wake up and realize that you’re nothing but an angry old man lashing out at everyone who reminds you of how miserable you are. And you’ll think to yourself: If only I had seen just one beautiful thing. If only I could have found proof that the world wasn’t entirely horrible and corrupt. If only I had seen a unicorn.”  
  
“…Okay, we can look for unicorns,” Hermione mumbled.  
  
I beamed, slinging a still-invisible arm around her shoulder. “I knew you would see things my way. Now, all we have to do is –“  
  
“Stop!” a voice shouted from behind us. “Don’t go any farther.”  
  
I cursed as Professor Lupin jogged over to us. The werewolf had followed us into the forest. At this rate, we would never find a unicorn.  
  
“I told you we shouldn’t do this,” Hermione hissed.  
  
“Oh, we’ll be fine.” I’d have disappeared under my cloak and continued the search, but I didn’t trust Hermione to cover for me. Besides, I couldn’t leave without my unicorn bait.  
  
Lupin said, “I’ve finally found you. Now, where’s Miss Weasley?”  
  
“Ron’s right over there,” I said, pointing at him with an invisible arm.  
  
“Hey, I’m not a girl!” Ron shouted at Lupin.  
  
“Yeah!” I agreed.  
  
Lupin chuckled. “I do know that, Mr. Weasley. I was talking about your younger sister. I assume she’s hiding somewhere among the trees?”  
  
I snorted and said, “Professor, we’re trying to capture a unicorn. We can’t afford to be slowed down by some Second Year girl who probably still plays with dolls and puts flowers in her hair.”  
  
Things were progressing slowly enough with two third years.  
  
“She’s been missing for a few hours now,” Lupin said thoughtfully. “And she was last spotted leaving the castle. None of the portraits saw her come back in.”  
  
I shrugged. That didn’t seem too odd for her, considering the whole Chamber of Secrets incident. “She’s probably performing some sort of Dark ritual. It is the night of the full moon, after all.”  
  
Lupin suddenly became very pale. “Oh Merlin. It is.”  
  
“Professor,” Hermione said slowly. “You didn’t forget to take your potion today…Did you?”  
  
“I —"  
  
Ron yelped, “You don’t think Snape’s out here?”  
  
“He probably is,” I said. “Right now, he’s prowling through the forest, mad with animalistic rage…Werewolves are well known for their thirst for virgin blood. Your sister is likely lost to us.”  
  
Hermione said, “First of all, werewolves don’t drink blood: That’s vampires. Second of all, that virgin thing is a myth. Third of all, the moon isn’t even out as it’s still cloudy. Finally –“  
  
Hermione was interrupted when Lupin rasped, “Run.”  
  
He was hunched over, fur sprouting from the back of his hands. Loud cracking sounds echoed through the forest, and Hermione’s eyes widened.  
  
“Professor, are you okay?”  
  
“Forget about me. I didn’t take Wolfsbane. You’re all in danger,” he said – though I could hardly hear the words amid his growls. His face appeared to be twisting into a snout.  
  
Ron said, “You mean Lupin was the werewolf the whole time?!”  
  
“Obviously,” I said. “Really, Snape spent several classes talking about them. You think you’d know the signs by now.”  
  
“But you said –“  
  
“Ron, you really ought to know not to take me at my word. Don’t you remember how I promised to feed Scabbers when you were in the Hospital Wing last year?”  
  
In my defense, the rat did survive, and its recently declining health was almost certainly not my fault.  
  
There was a girlish shriek – probably Ron – then a loud growl. Ah, yes, the ravenous werewolf. I’d forgotten.  
  
I grabbed Hermione’s hand and started running. What? I might be an incredibly powerful wizard, but I’m no Lockhart.  
  
The werewolf pursued us, snapping at our cloaks and leaving deep gashes in the forest floor.

I cursed. I couldn’t find a unicorn, I was in the middle of the woods, and a professor was trying to eat me…Come to think of it, this was a lot like the first time I went through Third Year.  
  
Through some small fortune, the moon provided enough light to navigate through the trees. Hermione still occasionally stumbled on a shadowed root, but my steadying hand kept her on her feet. I found myself wishing that the werewolf would trip over one as well and give us a head start to escape.  
  
I then realized that I was thinking like a Hufflepuff and cast a Tripping Jinx.  
  
As usual, my quick-thinking had saved our lives. We emerged from the forest shortly afterward and hid in Hagrid’s abandoned hut. I barricaded the door with one of his comically-oversized chairs and a plank that was propped beside it for the purpose. Then, I added several locking and strengthening spells because I’m not a squib.  
  
Hermione collapsed against the wall, still breathing heavily from our dash. I wasn’t doing too well myself. It’s unfortunate how academic mindedness may lead one to neglect their physical strength.  
  
“Well, thankfully that’s over,” I said.  
  
“Y-yeah,” Hermione murmured.  
  
“This actually went fairly well. We were only caught sneaking out because of the Weasley girl…”  
  
Hermione’s eyes widened as she contemplated the girl’s grisly demise. “Wait a —"  
  
“…We managed to defeat a werewolf, which is pretty impressive for three Third Years…”  
  
“Harry —"  
  
“…Sure, we didn’t find a unicorn, but that was clearly Ron’s fault” – I paused –“Galloping gargoyles, we forgot Ron! Hermione, why didn’t you inform me of this?”  
  
“I tried to —"  
  
“Enough of your excuses,” I said. “You’ve once again recklessly endangered our friend through your horrible apathy.”  
  
I bowed my head. It was a pity. I’d liked Ron…or at least he’d liked me. Something like that. My disappointment over his loss nearly equaled my disappointment over his failure to attract a unicorn.  
  
“We can still save him,” Hermione said. She stood up, her eyes gleaming with Gryffindor determination.  
  
“No, Hermione. It’s too late to go back for him now. He’s already dead. And he wouldn’t want us to tarnish his sacrifice by getting eaten by werewolves.”  
  
She bit her lip, seeming to argue with herself for a moment before pulling something from beneath her cloak. I couldn’t see in the dim light of the derelict hut, so I cast Lumos. A small hourglass dangled at the end of a chain.  
  
I gaped in a very Weasley fashion. “Hermione, why do you have a time turner? Are you a Department of Mysteries spy?”  
  
That would explain everything. Hermione was always unsettlingly mature and had never blended in with real children. She understood magic in a primarily academic sense, as if she’d learned it already. She was an adept liar, as I’d learned early on in our friendship. Finally, it couldn’t be a coincidence that she’d ended up in the same year and house as the famous Harry Potter, even though she was clearly a Ravenclaw.  
  
Hermione frowned. “No, of course not. I got it from McGonagall so that I could take all the electives.”  
  
“Hold on, you’re telling me that — if you take two extra classes — the school will give you power over time? Why don’t they advertise these things?” I grumbled.  
  
“I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, and I think it was sort of a special allowance for me,” Hermione said.  
  
“That makes it worse!”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes but knew better than to argue when I was obviously correct. She walked over and gestured for me to take hold of the time turner.  
  
With a well-practiced hand, she turned the hourglass twice and we fell into the past.

* * *

I landed on my back. It seemed that I would have to get used to magical travel all over again. As I waited for my head to stop spinning, I stared up at the ceiling of Hagrid’s dilapidated hut. There was a hole in it already, I noted, which was odd considering it had only been empty for a year. Perhaps the groundskeeper’s home shared the castle’s dramatic tendencies.  
  
The sky was tinted orange and pink with the setting sun, and warm sunlight fell across my face from a dingy window.  
  
“Why is the sun setting?” I asked.  
  
Hermione bit her lip as she glanced down and said carefully, “We went back in time. You do remember, don’t you? You didn’t hit your –“  
  
“I am aware that we traveled through time. I am not an idiot,” I said. “Just how far back did you take us?”  
  
“Three hours,” Hermione said.  
  
I sat up abruptly. “Why?”  
  
“We have to plan of course.” She sniffed haughtily, reaching out a hand to help me up.  
  
I attempted to stand on my own, fell, and repeated the process until I was shakily on my feet. “What’s to plan? We grab Ron and run away.”  
  
“Harry! We can’t face down a werewolf without proper preparation,” she chided as we made our way to the door. It was locked, so Hermione cast Alohomora. We left the door slightly open as we walked towards the forest.  
  
“We don’t have to, though. It’ll be too busy trying to eat us.”  
  
“I…what?”  
  
“Past us, Hermione, keep up.” I sighed. Was no one my intellectual equal?  
  
“But it won’t be chasing us for more than a few minutes…” Hermione said.  
  
“Yes, that’s why we run. We’ve already been over this. But stop distracting from the issue: You took us three hours back in time, which means that I’m three hours older and three hours closer to death…You’re killing me, Hermione, just as you killed Ron,” I finished with a smirk.  
  
She smacked me on the arm, snapping, “I did not kill Ron!”  
  
“No, that won’t happen for three hours,” I said. “Also, his killer is _technically_ Lupin.”  
  
“He’s not going to die,” Hermione said. “We’re saving him.”  
  
“Can I come?”  
  
I whirled around in surprise as the Weasley girl stood behind us.  
  
“I’m sorry?” Hermione squeaked, stuffing her time turner under her robes.  
  
The Weasley’s chin tilted defiantly. “You traveled back in time to save Ron from Professor Lupin’s werewolf form, and I want to help.”  
  
“How did you know that?!” I demanded. “Are you using Legilimency right now? Hermione, don’t look at her eyes.”  
  
The redhead frowned, brow wrinkling in a very Weasley confusion. “Uh, no, I just heard you talking. You do realize that your invisibility cloak doesn’t shield sound, right?”  
  
“No, it unfortunately does not,” I sighed, glancing down at my beloved cloak — or at least the space where I was pretty sure it was, since it was invisible at the moment.  
  
“So, can I come then?” she asked brightly.  
  
“We are short a Weasley…” I said. “I don’t suppose you know your family’s Dark Magic?”  
  
Her eyes shone fervently. “No, but I think I’m getting close.”  
  
“Good, you’re doing better than Ron, then.” That made sense considering she was their only daughter and the seventh child. Seven is a magical number. There’s no point in having seven children if you aren’t going to empower the last of them.  
  
Hermione stood gaping at us.  
  
“I’m in then?”  
  
I hummed thoughtfully. “How’s your stunner?”  
  
“I don’t know that spell,” she admitted.  
  
“Then you’ll be a reasonable substitute for Ron,” I assured her.  
  
Hermione had successfully recovered from her earlier shock. Her voice was flat. “Your parents actually told you they have Dark Magic.”  
  
The Weasley girl shrugged. “Not exactly, though they leave some pretty obvious hints. I don’t think I would have caught on if a friend of mine hadn’t told me about it.”  
  
“Was that friend Harry?” Hermione asked with a skeptical eyebrow buried beneath her enormous hair.  
  
“It wasn’t me,” I said.  
  
“It wasn’t him,” she agreed.  
  
“Then who was it?”  
  
The redhead blushed brightly, stuttering, “I-It was an older boy. He graduated. You wouldn’t know him.”  
  
“See, Hermione, even the upperclassmen agree with me,” I said.  
  
She sighed, rolling her eyes. The Weasley girl asked, “So, what do we do now?”  
  
“I suppose we can look for unicorns again…”

* * *

“Well, that was a dismal failure,” I grumbled as we walked through the forest towards the spot where Lupin attacked us. “I told you we needed Ron.”  
  
“Sorry, Harry,” the youngest Weasley said.  
  
“Consider yourself begrudgingly forgiven,” I said magnanimously.  
  
“It wasn’t all bad though, was it?” she continued. “I still can’t believe that your first reaction to seeing a grim is to hex it!”  
  
“Yes,” I said. “That was pretty great.”  
  
“Oh, I hope we’re not too late. That meadow was awfully far out, and it wasn’t even bathed in moonlight. So I’m not certain what the point even” – Hermione gasped – “That’s us! Hide, we can’t let them see us.”  
  
She crouched among the shrubbery while the Weasley and I stood and watched through the trees.  
  
“…in the Hospital Wing last year?” one of the figures finished arrogantly – probably Hermione.  
  
I raised my wand and incanted, “Accio Weasley.”  
  
The Weasley girl fell against me with a startled shriek, and Ron flew backward, occasionally hitting a tree. He skidded to a halt a foot in front of me. In the distance, Hermione and I fled from Lupin.  
  
Ron stared up at us stupidly. “Harry?”  
  
“Obviously,” I said. “Were you expecting a unicorn?”  
  
He laughed weakly. “Oh, good, for a second there I’d thought you guys had just left me there.”  
  
I said, “Ron, we would never do that. You are our dearest friend, and, frankly, I think worse of you for saying something so disloyal.”  
  
Hermione flung her arms around him and began sniffling against his shoulder.

I scowled. “See, you’ve upset Hermione.”  
  
He turned towards our substitute Weasley. “Wait, how’d you get here?”  
  
“She’s been with us for three hours. Pay attention.”  
  
“I have,” the youngest Weasley agreed.  
  
Ron’s face twisted in confusion. “But –“  
  
“Enough of this. We have to get out of here before the werewolf comes back.”

* * *

I think we all felt a little better once we entered the castle and our odds of being maimed fell to their usual, slightly less alarming level.  
  
Ron grinned. “Glad that’s over.”  
  
“Yes,” I said. “Though we never did find that unicorn.”  
  
“I said I was sorry about that,” the Weasley girl muttered with a tone worryingly close to rebellion.  
  
Ron slung an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “See? We didn’t even get in trouble.”  
  
It was at that moment that Severus descended from the shadows beneath the staircase, eyes gleaming. He always was overdramatic. “My, my, what have we here? Has the lost little lion decided to grace us with her presence? Oh, and of course _you’re_ in the thick of this, Potter.”  
  
He gestured towards me with a sweep of his black-robed arm.

Hermione immediately came up with a cover story. “You have to understand, Professor, we were just worried about Ginny..."  
  
“So you decided to go after her yourselves, rather than let the professors handle the situation. Twenty points for typical Gryffindor foolishness.”  
  
“In retrospect, it was a bad idea,” she said hurriedly, “but we did find her before anyone else.”  
  
“And then Lupin found us,” I said. “Sir, I’m not sure if you were aware of this, but it turns out he was the werewolf all along. He tried to eat us.”  
  
Severus was clearly pleased. He said, “Continue.”  
  
“He forgot to take his Wolfsbane because he is an idiot. Fortunately, I cast a Tripping Jinx and threw him off balance.”  
  
Severus spoke approvingly. “Attacking his feet. It seems you were paying attention after all. For applying your class knowledge to a real life situation…Thirty points to Slytherin.”  
  
“Hey, you can’t…” — I paused — “Did you just say Slytherin?”  
  
Severus quirked an eyebrow and drawled, “I’m on to you, Potter.”

* * *

Dumbledore sighed heavily. “I’m very disappointed in you, Harry.”

He had once again summoned me to his office, but this time it seemed I was actually in trouble. I kept my eyes downcast so that he couldn’t steal my thoughts. Come to think of it, I really needed to learn Occlumency at some point…and I still hadn’t made that Horcrux.  
  
Seeing that I wasn’t going to answer, Dumbledore continued, “Why did you tell everyone about Professor Lupin’s condition? Surely, you realized how much trouble that would cause him.”  
  
“I didn’t tell _everyone_ ,” I muttered. “I only told Snape. Though I admittedly should have suspected he couldn’t be trusted with sensitive information considering he couldn’t even keep his own lycanthropy secret.”  
  
“Professor Snape is not a werewolf,” he said with a grandfatherly smile.  
  
“No, I’m quite certain he is,” I insisted. “He told me so himself. I asked if he’d been attacked by a werewolf, and he said yes.”  
  
Dumbledore coughed, no doubt trying to hide his shock at my brilliant deductions. “That aside, I have it on good authority that you announced Professor Lupin’s secret to the Gryffindor Common Room.”  
  
“That’s not my fault. They were asking where I’d been. What was I supposed to do: Lie? Lie, like a dirty Slytherin?”  
  
Dumbledore accepted the insult without comment, which I assure you he never would have done when I was still Tom Riddle. “You still did not need to ruin a good man’s reputation.”  
  
I stared at him incredulously. Usually, I would have meekly agreed and hoped to escape Dumbledore’s wrath for one more day. However, he was acting even more insane than he usually pretended to be. “Headmaster, he turns into a ravenous monster that attacks students.”  
  
I had done many terrible things in my two lives, but I’d never _accidentally_ murdered children.  
  
Dumbledore shook his head wearily. “You have to understand that he would normally never harm a student. So long as he takes his Wolfsbane –“  
  
“But he didn’t take it,” I pointed out. “How do you even forget something like that?”  
  
“It was a very stressful night. Miss Weasley had just gone missing, and with Sirius Black still on the loose…”  
  
“You can’t just panic every time a student goes missing!” I cried. “We would never get anything done, if we did that. We still haven’t found those two Hufflepuffs.”  
  
I personally suspected the dementors.  
  
“Be that as it may,” Dumbledore said. “It was not your secret to tell. You could have spoken to me or Professor McGonagall.”  
  
“Right, because the staff handles murderous professors so well,” I grumbled. “That’s why the Ministry stopped Hagrid’s reign of terror, and I had to take down Quirrel.”  
  
Admittedly, both of them were entirely innocent, but Dumbledore didn’t know that.  
  
“Perhaps I’ve been too lenient.” Dumbledore suddenly looked very old. One of these days, he was going to die, and I would finally be safe.  
  
“So, can I go now?” I asked. “I think some of the other Gryffindors are having a pick-up game of Quidditch on the grounds.”  
  
He said, “One last thing, try not to stray too far from your Aunt’s house this summer. Sirius Black is still on the loose, after all.”  
  
I nodded.  
  
Dumbledore waved me away with a strained smile. “Enjoy your Quidditch.”

* * *

I burst into the Gryffindor common room and approached my best minions.  
  
“Ron,” I barked. “I need you to organize a Quidditch game.”  
  
Ron jumped up from the couch, like a proper minion. He then ruined the effect by questioning me. “But I thought you hated Quidditch.”  
  
“This is a matter of vital importance.”  
  
“What could possibly be important about Quidditch?” Hermione asked.  
  
“Dumbledore,” I said, voice flat.  
  
Ron scratched his head thoughtfully. “I guess I can get Dean, Seamus, and Neville. Ginny’s always up for a game. The twins would usually be, too, but they’re pretty focused on catching some master prankster, right now.”  
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow and asked, “Master prankster?”  
  
Ron gestured towards the wall, where Fred and George were analyzing a tapestry with a variety of spells. “Yeah, apparently somebody tossed them into the wall last night. Percy got hit, too.”  
  
“I’m surprised no one did this earlier” – I sniffed disdainfully – “They’re completely insufferable.”  
  
“Harry,” Hermione said, “you do realize that was you, right?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Last night, when you waved your wand and said ‘Accio Weasley…’”  
  
She mimed the motion with her wand, and Ron fell into her with a startled squeak. Meanwhile, the twins stumbled and looked around the room with narrowed eyes. Hermione hastily lowered her arm, mumbling, “I probably shouldn’t gesture with my wand.”  
  
“Don’t be a Muggle, Hermione,” I said, “and, Ron, assemble our Quidditch team. I’ve had enough of your procrastination.”

* * *

“It was then that Lupin’s fur exploded outwards, his skin bursting and bloody underneath…”  
  
I had to shout to be heard above the excited chattering of my fellow students. The Great Hall was always cacophonous during the End of the Year Feast, and Gryffindors have painfully short attention spans.  
  
I said, “…Lupin got Ron, but we valiantly saved his life.”  
  
Ron frowned. “Mate, you’ve got to stop saying it like that. People are going to think I’m a werewolf.”  
  
“Ron, our classmates aren’t idiots. That rumor will go away after a couple of moons. Now, what was I saying?”  
  
“Lupin was maiming Ron,” one of my classmates said helpfully.  
  
“Yes, thank you. I hit it with a stinging hex as a distraction. This gave Hermione and me time to grab Ron and run. The werewolf followed, of course, but a well-aimed curse knocked it off its feet.”  
  
“Where was Ginny?” Longbottom asked.  
  
I looked across the table where the Weasley girl was gazing dreamily at me. “Wait, is that your name?”  
  
“Yes,” she said.  
  
I snorted. “That’s a house-elf name.”  
  
“It’s short for Ginevra,” she reassured me.  
  
“Oh, that makes more sense,” I said. “Yes, well, it turns out that Ginevra had fallen asleep by the groundskeeper’s haunted hut, and we found her on the way out. Without our help, she surely would have died.”  
  
Dumbledore’s voice echoed through the Hall. “It’s once again time to award the House Cup. This year’s totals are: Gryffindor, two hundred points; Hufflepuff, three-hundred and thirty points; Ravenclaw, four hundred and thirteen points; and Slytherin, five hundred points. Congratulations, Slytherin.”  
  
Dumbledore gestured so that the banners changed to Slytherin green and silver. I clapped along with the rest of the Slytherins, earning unhappy looks from my Gryffindor housemates. The only thing that saved me from a tirade was my heavy frown. This victory was a bitter one.  
  
“This is terrible,” I declared. “We lost to _Hufflepuff_. What is wrong with you people?”  
  
It was not the first time in my life that two hundred people simultaneously glared at me, but it was the first occasion I can recall that was not preceded by murder.

* * *

I stared out of the Hogwarts Express’s window. While I had absolutely no intention of joining Ron and Ginevra’s game of exploding snap, the loud banging made it impossible to read any of the tomes I’d stolen from the library.  
  
That didn’t keep Hermione from her latest book, of course. Nothing ever does. Therefore, we were all surprised when, with a frustrated huff, she shut it and exclaimed, “I just don’t understand!”  
  
“Wait, there’s something the Great Hermione Granger doesn’t understand?” Ron said, clutching his chest in mock horror.  
  
Ginevra giggled. “Impossible.”  
  
“I believe that’s a sign of the apocalypse,” I said gravely.  
  
Hermione shot us an annoyed look. “Stop being ridiculous. I was just thinking about the, um…”  
  
With a nervous glance at Ron, she said, “…the you-know-what that helped me get to class on time.”  
  
“It’s called a time turner, Hermione,” I said.  
  
Hermione stood up angrily, once again trying to use her height advantage against me. “I know what it’s called! I just wasn’t supposed to tell anyone else, and you promised to be discreet…”  
  
“Hermione, I never promised that.” I was quite certain of it. I avoid promises on principle – notably the principle of not being held accountable for things.  
  
“I still wasn’t supposed to tell anyone,” Hermione mumbled.  
  
I dismissed the Weasley kneeling on the train car floor with a flick of my wand. “It’s not like he has any idea what we’re talking about.”  
  
“What’s a time spinner?” Ron asked.  
  
“See? Completely clueless,” I assured her. “You were saying?”  
  
Hermione sat back down, though with more of a thud than was strictly necessary. “It’s just this whole business with Lupin. We had to use the turner to save Ron from Lupin. But Lupin only forgot his potion because he was looking for Ginny. But Ginny was only missing because we took her with us to save Ron. So…how did it all start?”  
  
I chuckled. “Oh, Hermione. This is time travel. These things never start. They just happen.”  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said flatly.  
  
“Sure it does. You just haven’t spent enough time in the magical world yet,” I reassured her.  
  
“Wait, you guys time traveled?” Ron yelped. “Was _that_ what happened?”  
  
It was really no surprise that Ginevra was making better progress in acquiring her family’s Dark Magic. Ron simply had no cunning. “Yes, Hermione time travels to attend all her classes.”  
  
“Not anymore,” Hermione quickly said. “I’ve given up Divination and Muggle Studies – they were useless anyway – and returned the time turner to Professor McGonagall.”  
  
My jaw dropped in a very Weasley fashion. “You returned the time turner? But Hermione, we had the power to bend time to our will. We could have done so many _things_.”  
  
“That’s why I returned it,” Hermione said primly.  
  
Traitorous, selfish, and unrepentantly evil…Yes, she was exactly like me at that age.


	6. Harry Potter vs. Alastor Moody (Pt. 1)

I paced my room at the Dursleys, wand spinning between my fingers. Dumbledore had warned me to stay inside for fear of Sirius Black, and I had reluctantly abided by his request. But the Muggle world was exhausting, and – worse yet – incredibly boring.  
  
The Weasley’s old owl thudded against my window, scratching the glass weakly. I scrambled toward it in a horribly undignified manner and swung open the window, causing the owl to fall into my room. He was probably dead.

I shrugged and grabbed the message from his twitching claws.  
  
 _Hi Harry,_  
  
 _Has Hermione been on you about doing homework? She’s completely mental. We’ve got a whole month left!_  
  
 _Did you hear that the Cannons won their last game? It’s the third time this season. The twins say it’s a fluke, but I think they’ve really got a chance at the Cup._  
  
I skimmed the rest of the letter. Apparently, Ron’s rat was eaten by a grim or something. See, this is why I miss the wizarding world. When I leave, even Ron has adventures without me. I scowled, returning to the letter.  
  
 _Mum’s been asking when you’re going to visit. If you want, you could probably come for the rest of the summer…_  
  
I didn’t read the end of the letter. I was too busy packing.

* * *

“Harry!” That was my only warning as I stepped from Mr. Weasley’s car and was viciously attacked. I stood still and waited for Hermione to stop hugging me.  
  
“Hello, Hermione,” I said. “Ron.”  
  
Ginevra also peeked at us from the doorway. But, since she was attempting to be discreet, I pretended not to see her.  
  
“Hey, mate,” Ron said.  
  
His mother bustled over, beaming. I think she wanted to hug me as well, but I’d already gotten my wand out. She kept her hands clasped atop her chest. Smart of her – which made sense since she was only a Weasley by marriage. “Harry! Oh, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’ve been telling Ron to have you over for years.”  
  
“I didn’t want to impose,” I said.  
  
She smiled sweetly. “No imposition at all.”  
  
A loud ding echoed across the yard. With a harried look, the Weasley matriarch said, “Now, lunch will be ready in a few minutes, so don’t stay out here too long.”  
  
As she left, Ron turned to me. “You didn’t want to impose?”  
  
“Well, no, it seemed rude.”  
  
“Mate, that doesn’t sound like you at all. When have you _ever_ cared about being rude?”  
  
I shrugged, tucking my wand back in my pocket since the danger of Weasley affection had passed. “I was under the impression you lived in a shoebox.”  
  
His Weasley mouth dropped open and stayed that way for some time. “What?!”  
  
“That’s what Malfoy said,” I said peevishly.  
  
“He was just being an insulting git like he always is,” Hermione said.  
  
I frowned and observed Ron with unshielded confusion. “But, if he was lying, why did you get so upset?”  
  
Ron went on sputtering for a while, waving his hands around as if to illustrate some incomprehensible point. I turned my attention to a thoughtful Hermione, which could only lead to trouble. She stared at the place where Mr. Weasley’s car was parked. “Why didn’t you mention that your family were Muggles?”  
  
“Oh, I prefer not to talk about them. They’re really quite insufferable,” I said.  
  
“What do you mean?” Ron asked, finally recovered.  
  
“They just are” – I shrugged – “You would understand if you met them.”  
  
Hermione said, “Harry, if you were raised by Muggles, then where do all of your biases come from?”  
  
“I have legitimately no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“You have no respect for Hufflepuffs, and sometimes you just completely disregard Muggles like they aren’t even people” – Hermione cocked her head, giving me a suspicious look – “Your family _is_ alright with you coming here, right? You didn’t just decide they were unimportant and go off without telling anyone?”  
  
I tried to cut in on her completely unwarranted paranoia. “Hermione –“  
  
She rambled on. “Because that _really_ seems like something you would do.”  
  
I huffed, insulted. “I told them. And I’ll have you know they were very happy to see me go. There was hugging and everything.”  
  
She giggled. “Aw.”  
  
“I wasn’t involved,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t get any ideas. “They also had a party.”  
  
“That sounds nice,” Hermione said.  
  
“I wouldn’t know. It was after I left.”  
  
Hermione seemed quite stunned and failed to respond. Since the conversation was clearly over at that point, I wandered inside in search of lunch.

* * *

“Now she insists I’ve been ‘emotionally neglected.’ Whatever that means.”  
  
Ron nodded. “Yeah, ‘Mione can be kind of weird about stuff like that.  
  
“It’s like the house-elves all over again,” I grumbled, “except I’m the house-elf. And she’s trying to kill _me_ with her deformed mittens.”  
  
“What does that –“  
  
“It’s a metaphor, Ron. Don’t strain yourself trying to make sense of it,” I said.  
  
I paced the floor of Ron’s room, bursting with agitated energy. Usually, when I felt like this, I would relieve my tension by destroying something. But magic was not permitted over the summers, and I refused to break things with my hands like a Muggle.  
  
“She’d probably forget about it if we got out of the house for a bit,” Ron said.  
  
I stopped pacing. That seemed reasonable, for a Weasley suggestion. As much as Hermione struggles to care about things that are traditionally immoral, a quick distraction usually causes her to lose interest.  
  
Ron continued, “I bet even a couple of days would do it.”  
  
“I’m listening.”

* * *

I woke up early the morning after the World Cup – no surprise since I’d spent most of the previous day sleeping. Ron had been rather upset at Hermione’s and my disinterest in the game – insisting upon waking me up every ten minutes and snatching Hermione’s book from her hands – but he forgot our “betrayal” easily enough after the Cup’s climactic finish. At least, I presume it was climactic; I slept through it.  
  
I left my invisibility cloak and other blankets crumpled on the couch as I wandered towards the tent’s kitchen. The fridge was well stocked, but I’d never cared for cooking.  
  
“Dobby,” I snapped.  
  
The house-elf arrived a few minutes later, looking nervous. “Yes, Great Master Harry Potter sir?”  
  
“You’re late,” I said.  
  
“Dobby is sorry, so very sorry!” he cried, slamming his limbs violently against the floor in what might charitably be referred to as a bow. “Master Lucy came home very late, and he wanted me to fetch him pain potions. I did not want to be making him angry.”  
  
“Don’t let him order you around so much,” I ordered.  
  
Dobby nodded, ears flapping and eyes shining rebelliously. This is why I don’t keep house elves: The risk of betrayal is far too great. I continued, “Now, bring me whatever Lucius is having for breakfast.”  
  
Ginevra stumbled upon me half hour later, as I was polishing off some sort of giant egg set on a silver plate.  
  
“Harry?” she gasped, then shouted, “He’s right here!”  
  
A stampede of Weasleys and a lone Hermione stumbled, bleary-eyed from their rooms. Hermione cried indignantly, “Where have you been?! We were worried sick.”  
  
I frowned, confused and quite displeased with the feeling. “It’s not like I don’t usually sleep under the cloak.”  
  
Hermione’s fists clenched, and she hissed, “You weren’t in your bed.”  
  
“If I was in my bed, then that would destroy the whole point of sleeping invisible.” I said.  
  
She gave a little screech of frustration, while Mr. Weasley said, “I’m glad you’re safe. I suppose you couldn’t find us during the attack?”  
  
“Attack?”  
  
One of the Weasley twins spoke, voice filled with the appropriate amount of awe. “You slept through a Death Eater attack?”  
  
After a further ten minutes of failing to communicate (entirely the Weasleys’ fault) I found out that a group of Death Eaters had come to wreak havoc, torment Muggles, and generally have a good time. I had slept through it, a skill I’d acquired during my reign of terror.  
  
It was nice, I reflected, to see the Death Eaters taking the initiative. Perhaps they were paying homage to their fallen leader.  
  
I don’t know why else they would attack a Quidditch game.

* * *

At the Head Table, Dumbledore began his start of term speech. First, he happily informed us that the Dementors had been removed due to our foreign visitors – apparently Beauxbatons takes a dim view on the consumption of their students’ souls. Then, he turned to the topic of horrible deaths, as he does every year. I wasn’t paying much attention, consumed by my thoughts.  
  
The Triwizard Tournament had finally returned to Hogwarts. It hadn’t been around when I was a student, or I would have another trophy to add to my collection. In fact, it hadn’t been around for two centuries. Trust Dumbledore to revive a dangerous, Gryffindorishly reckless competition. Still, it fit well in the narrative of Harry Potter, vanquisher of the Dark Lord and future Hogwarts professor.  
  
As we stood to leave the Great Hall, Ginevra at our heels, Ron snatched some sweets from the table.  
  
Hermione sighed dramatically. “Do you really need more sugar, Ronald?”  
  
His words were mangled by a mouthful of food. “Ima gwwing boy.”  
  
She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t need sugar to grow; you aren’t a bacteria. And that’s disgusting!”  
  
“You’re dis—"  
  
“I’m going to win the Triwizard Tournament,” I declared.  
  
“What?!” Hermione shrieked, once again paying attention to me. As is only appropriate. “Harry, that’s even worse than your usual ideas. People die doing things like this.”  
  
I shrugged. “It can’t be any more dangerous than going to school usually is.”  
  
Ron frowned, jogging to keep pace with us as I sped up with enthusiasm and Hermione with righteous anger. “I dunno, Dumbledore thinks it’s dangerous, and he hires werewolves as professors.”  
  
I said, “I still think I’ll be fine.”  
  
“Well, you can’t enter anyway,” Hermione sniffed. “It’s seventh years and older, no exceptions.”  
  
“That doesn’t seem very fair. Even if we start doing it regularly again, it isn’t due for five more years. I’ll have graduated by then. Then I’ll never get the chance to compete.”  
  
“It’s for your own safety,” she said.  
  
“The Goblet wouldn’t choose me if I couldn’t compete.” At least, I didn’t think it would. How _did_ that work? “But it can hardly judge if I don’t put in my name.”  
  
“They’ll put up protections to stop you,” Hermione said with a desperate sort of hope.  
  
“I’ll get around them,” I assured her.  
  
“I’ll help, Harry,” Ginevra said.  
  
“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about you.”  
  
We had reached the common room by then, going inside with a muttered, “Flobberworm.”  
  
The familiar, red room, filled with chattering students, greeted us. I took the only available chair, earning an insolent glare from Hermione and a “Hey!” from Ron. Ginevra stood without complaint, which nearly made me regret my decision. I took a deep breath.  
  
“Look, Ginevra, we have to talk about this” — I waved my hand vaguely — “following us thing. I didn’t say anything before because we were at your house, and you should be able to stalk whomever you like at your house. But this is my house.”  
  
“It’s a school, Harry. It’s nobody’s house,” Hermione said as she dug out her Transfiguration book, intent upon reading it for the third time before term.  
  
I ignored her, of course. “Now, I appreciate your stepping in last year. You made a perfectly suitable substitute for Ron. But Ron’s back, and he has seniority.”  
  
Ginevra pouted, asking, “Why can’t we both be your friends?”  
  
I shook my head. “We’re already perilously close to a Weasley majority. I can’t have the two of you stalemating.”  
  
“It’s not like we’re the same person,” Ginevra said. “I’m different from my brothers.”  
  
“See, now you sound exactly like Ron,” I said. “This just isn’t going to work. Right, Hermione?”  
  
Hermione didn’t even look up from her textbook. “I don’t have a problem with Ginny.”  
  
“Right, Ron?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said, elaborating at his sister’s betrayed look. “Sorry, Ginny, but you’re my little sister and these are _my_ friends. You should go spend time with your own friends.”  
  
Ron paused for a moment. “Uh, you do have friends, right?”  
  
Ginevra frowned but didn’t answer. Several seconds passed.  
  
“Ginny?” Ron asked nervously.  
  
“I’m thinking,” she snapped.  
  
Hermione finished reading another twelve pages before Ginevra spoke again. “…Yes.”  
  
“Good,” I said. “Then go and spend time in their company, earn their trust, fashion their loyalty, and when the time is right –“  
  
“You’re starting to sound like a Slytherin, mate,” Ron said.  
  
“Right, yes. What I meant to say was: Have fun. Also, leave.”

* * *

Professor Moody’s magical eye had locked upon me the moment I entered the classroom, and it hadn’t moved yet. He was suspicious of me, I could tell, and I forced my face to remain impassive as he explained the topic of today’s lesson:  
  
The Unforgivable Curses.  
  
Still, I couldn’t entirely quell my enthusiasm. They were my favorite curses, after all.  
  
“So…do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?” Moody asked, narrowing his eyes at the class as if one of us was going to burst into tears and confess to a heinous crime.  
  
My hand shot up, followed tentatively by Hermione’s. Moody barked, “Go on, Granger.”  
  
“The Imperius Curse,” Hermione said, “It forces the victim to follow the caster’s orders.”  
  
“Good,” he said. Moody pulled out three cages, each holding a spider. He turned his wand upon one of them and forced it to dance. A few nervous giggles greeted its performance, though none of my classmates took their eyes from the arachnid.  
  
“Think it’s funny, do you?” Moody asked. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?”  
  
“No, sir,” Longbottom squeaked, shaking his head so quickly that it seemed ready to fly from his shoulders.  
  
“Good, that’s next lesson” – Moody laughed – “Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?”  
  
My hand returned to the air, but at least one of Moody’s eyes looked to the back of the room. “You, in the back.”  
  
Now he was just toying with me. I should have expected as much from an old friend of Dumbledore.  
  
Longbottom said tentatively, “The Cruciatus Curse.”  
  
“Your name’s Longbottom?” Moody asked gruffly.  
  
Longbottom attempted to hide under his desk. This might have been more effective if Moody couldn’t see through it. He enlarged the second spider, sparking terrified gasps from several students. A few slightly less terrified gasps came when he tortured it using the Cruciatus.  
  
“And the last one?”  
  
Unable to hold back any longer, I shouted, “Avada Kedavra! The Killing Curse. It lets you kill things.”  
  
“Yes, I suppose you would know about that,” Moody said, giving me an unsettling smile.  
  
He was on to me. He was on to me, and Dumbledore had already given him permission to cast Unforgivables on students.  
  
Moody continued, “You are the only survivor of that curse.”  
  
I laughed weakly. “Yes, of course. I’m not sure why else I would know it.”  
  
“Not like those bloody snakes,” Ron grumbled. “I bet they’ve been casting them since they were in diapers.”  
  
Moody smirked, gave a nod to Ron, and cast Avada Kedavra on the final spider. As my classmates breathed a collective sigh of relief at the arachnid’s death, Moody’s eye almost popped out of his head to watch me closer.  
  
I hoped my curse would strike early this year.

* * *

I tilted my head, examining the age line surrounding the Goblet of Fire. My sixty-eighth birthday was coming up, so it should let me through. Carefully, I nudged my foot against the line, feeling an ominous force pushing it back.  
  
Clearly, it responded to physical and not mental age. Of course, the Weasleys had artificially aged themselves and been thrown back regardless. Perhaps it required both? Or possibly Dumbledore had enchanted it to only allow Seventh Years in. Yes, I decided, that seemed reasonable.  
  
It was probably for the best that I couldn’t walk right through. That would raise all sorts of suspicions. No, I would have to take a more subtle approach.  
  
“Wingardium Leviosa,” I said. The parchment on which I’d scribbled my name smoothly levitated forward yet started shivering as it crossed the age line. Not far from the Goblet, it stopped altogether, crumpled into a ball, and ricocheted back. The ball bounced off my forehead.  
  
Lip curled, I tossed the piece of parchment in the air and snarled, “Ventis.”  
  
It tumbled towards the Goblet atop a spiral of wind which knocked over several unsuspecting passersby. It then returned at equal speed, again hitting my forehead.

* * *

I was crouched on the stone floor, putting the last touches on my latest attempt to enter the tournament, when Ron and Hermione interrupted me an hour later.  
  
“’Bout time. We’ve been looking for you all over. Hermione thought you were in the _library_.” Ron made a face that was – for once – intentionally stupid.  
  
“Harry spends plenty of time in the library,” Hermione said. “It’s not my fault you like to pretend he’s some sort of Quidditch fanatic.”  
  
“He’s coming around,” Ron said with an offended look. “He practically begged me to organize a game last year, and he went to the Cup with us.”  
  
“Two instances is hardly evidence of a trend, Ronald,” Hermione said.  
  
“Sure it isn’t, ‘Mione” – Ron faked a cough – “Jealous.”  
  
“I’m not jealous,” Hermione mumbled, “and you know I hate that nickname.”  
  
Grinning, Ron turned his attention to me. “What are you doing on the floor?”  
  
“Beating the age line,” I said. I added another slash of ink onto the stone. It was a little wobbly and looked more like a dragon than a unicorn, so I vanished it.  
  
Hermione leaned over to peek at my work. She gasped. “Those are NEWT level runes. You don’t even take Ancient Runes!”  
  
“You aren’t the only one who reads, Hermione,” I said.  
  
She glanced triumphantly at Ron. “I told you.”  
  
“So, what’s it do?” Ron asked.  
  
Hermione cleared her throat. “Well, I’ve only read about it in passing, mind you. It’s a very complicated work, though not all that uncommon among Curse Breakers who need to move something that they can’t touch, or in cases where other means of magical transportation might damage an object. It makes extensive use of the rune –“  
  
“Yeah, but what does it do?”  
  
Hermione sniffed haughtily. “I was getting to that. It’s used for teleporting things.”  
  
“Dunno why you can’t just say that,” Ron muttered. “Always have to go off on some –“  
  
“AT LAST!” I cried, rising from the ground. “I’ve completed it. Oh, sure, Dumbledore protected against physical intrusion and simple spells. But he could never have prepared for something so intricate, so far above anything he would expect of a mere child. But I am more than that. I am Harry Potter, and I will not be thwarted by the likes of _him_.”  
  
I smirked, dropping the ball of parchment atop the rune and laughing as it popped away. My eyes darted to the Goblet. The parchment appeared directly above it, only millimeters from the top. But it didn’t fall.  
  
It flew backwards and onto my forehead.  
  
As it fell to the ground, my eye twitched.  
  
I hadn’t experienced such intense fury since the dementor incident. I snatched up the crumpled parchment and blindly flung it at the Goblet. It traveled uninterrupted as it passed the age line, bounced against the Goblet’s interior, and fell inside.  
  
Ron gaped. “You can just throw it in?”  
  
“Of course,” I said. “They would never think to protect against the most base, mundane, Muggle methods. After all, who would stoop so low?”  
  
I smirked, congratulating myself on my astounding success. “Ron, bring me more paper. In fact, bring me all the paper you can find. Ink, too.”  
  
Ron scurried off to do my bidding. Hermione, always questioning my decisions, asked, “Why do you need paper?”  
  
“I have to put my name in more times, obviously,” I said.  
  
She pursed her lips. “No, you only need to put your name in once.”  
  
“Yes, that is what they would have you believe,” I said, “but I’ve contemplated this thoroughly. No one knows how the Goblet works or why it chooses the student it does. Oh, sure, sometimes it picks a great fighter with unmatched cunning, but, others, it picks someone whose name was put in as a joke or a Hufflepuff.”  
  
In retrospect, I was being redundant.  
  
“So?” Hermione asked.  
  
“It’s a lottery.”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”  
  
“No, believing that a big cup can choose the greatest champion based on a name on a slip of paper is ridiculous. What’s it do, analyze the handwriting?”  
  
“It’s very advanced magic,” Hermione said.  
  
“Or it picks a name at random. What do _you_ think is more likely?”  
  
Ron raced towards me, a stack of parchment in hand. “Got ‘em.”  
  
I nodded. “Good, now get more.”  
  
He took off again. I tore a strip of parchment off a sheet, scribbled my name, and shoved it into Hermione’s hands. “Make use of your terrible, Muggle origins and start throwing.”

* * *

“And, from Beauxbatons, Fleur Delacour,” Dumbledore said. A haughty witch in powder blue flounced towards the back room.  
  
Hermione shot me a triumphant look. “See? Both of the champions were their schools’ favorites to win, and they’re each very talented. It’s not a lottery.”  
  
I laughed, admiring her pigheaded attachment to an obviously incorrect theory. “That’s probably because they were the only ones who entered.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Hermione asked.  
  
“I spent eight hours camped out next to the Goblet yesterday. I’m pretty sure.”  
  
“Finally,” Dumbledore said. “For Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…”  
  
A third slip of parchment shot into his hands atop a jet of green flame. “…Harry Potter.”  
  
“Told you,” I said, standing to take a bow.  
  
A wave of disgruntled whispers echoed across the Great Hall. I don’t know why any of them were surprised. Honestly, who were they expecting? A Hufflepuff?  
  
A Durmstrang student gasped. “They can’t actually let him compete. He’s a Fourth Year!”  
  
A Seventh Year Hufflepuff sighed. “It’s always the bloody Gryffindors.”  
  
“He must have cheated!” Draco Malfoy cried.  
  
“Yeah, he cheated,” one of the Weasley twins shouted. “What did you think he was doing in the Great Hall yesterday – making paper airplanes or something?”  
  
I smirked. “I am the best at cheating, or I wouldn’t have been chosen by the Goblet.”  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense,” a Beauxbaton student said.  
  
I ignored them, sauntering towards the door where the previous champions had exited. Suddenly, the Goblet flared again, and Dumbledore cleared his throat. “It appears to be Harry Potter again…in different handwriting.”  
  
“Merlin’s tit, Harry broke the cup!” Ron yelled.  
  
I said, “I hope it doesn’t do that with all the entries.”  
  
Dumbledore appeared troubled. “My boy, just how many times _did_ you put your name in?”  
  
“Oh, three hundred or so. A lot bounced off the rim, so it was difficult to keep track,” I admitted.  
  
“How the hell did you manage that?” someone shouted from the Slytherin table.  
  
“It was a lot easier once I got the house-elf production line going,” I said. “I never thought I would be so grateful for Hermione’s literacy program.”  
  
“I didn’t start that so they’d be better slaves,” Hermione snapped.  
  
“And yet that was still the result,” I said. The harder she struggled against her naturally evil tendencies, the greater the eventual damage became. It was awe-inspiring, really.  
  
I left Hermione to her anger and followed the other champions.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we were still waiting in the same room. Delacour actively ignored me, while Krum’s abortive attempts at conversation faltered before the shouting going on a few feet away. I watched in amusement as the judges squabbled over my entry.  
  
With her champion’s fervent support, the Beauxbatons Headmistress insisted that competing against a fourteen-year-old wasn’t very sporting. I personally had no problem beating children a third my age. The event organizer, Crouch, was similarly worried that Britain would be at a disadvantage.  
  
In contrast, Igor Karkaroff feared the overwhelming power implied by the night I vanquished myself. It was hard to say if that was a sign of his intelligence, cowardice, or paranoia. Or perhaps he’d simply seen that Dumbledore was twinkling again.  
  
“Now, now, there’s nothing to be done but let him compete,” Dumbledore said. “The Goblet of Fire is magically binding, and the boy was chosen by it.”  
  
“Twice,” I added helpfully.  
  
“We wouldn’t want him to lose his magic, or even his life, because we were trying to protect him,” he continued, smiling serenely.  
  
They couldn’t argue with Dumbledore – no one ever can for long – so the judges begrudgingly agreed to let me compete and stormed off to sulk elsewhere. Their champions soon followed.  
  
“Lemon drop?” Dumbledore asked.  
  
I shook my head, unwilling to risk whatever concoction he’d devised to punish me for this latest scheme.  
  
“No one ever wants my lemon drops,” he sighed dramatically. Dumbledore popped a lemon drop in his mouth, winked at me, and left as well.  
  
Severus sneered at me from the corner of the room, sweeping forward only when everyone else had left. “You really are _exactly_ like your father – an arrogant, conceited, reckless fool with no regard for your own or others’ safety. But even he would not have been so moronic as to enter a dangerous magical competition. Repeatedly.”  
  
I gave him a lazy smile. Bantering with Severus was such fun. “Well, what can I say? I’m a typical Gryffindor, not a slimy Slytherin like you.”  
  
Severus’s eyes flashed with fury, and he leaned in so close that spittle flew at my face. “Do you think this is a game, Potter?”  
  
“Technically, it’s a tournament,” I said.  
  
Severus drew back, almost physically reigning in his emotions. He was silent for several moments, his lip curled in disgust at what he was about to do. “I think it’s about time you were actually punished. Twenty points from Slytherin.”  
  
My eyes widened. “You can’t do that! I’m not even in that house.”  
  
Severus smiled cruelly, drawling, “Five more for your cheek,” as he walked away.

* * *

“I don’t understand,” Hermione asked as we made our way towards the common room. “Why doesn’t he just give you detention?”  
  
I chuckled. “Oh, he tried that back in First Year. So long as he’s there, I rather enjoy them, and, if they’re unsupervised, I try to brew Felix Felicis and leave him to clean up the resulting poisons. The detentions are inevitably more of a punishment for him than me.”  
  
We passed through the portrait entrance. Inside, a party was in full swing. They’d been planning this ever since the tournament was first announced because the Hogwarts champion was obviously going to be a Gryffindor.

  
A cheer erupted when the partiers spotted us, and someone shoved a butterbeer in my hand. I grinned, announcing, “My plan has finally come to fruition. Snape has decided to take points from Slytherin every time I annoy him. We are going to sweep the Cup for the NEXT FOUR YEARS!”  
  
A second cheer went up, and a few people slapped me on the back. They soon turned their attention towards a keg of Weasley-smuggled firewhiskey. As we jostled our way through the crowd, Hermione said, “Harry, you weren’t actually planning…”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“So you’ve just suddenly stopped rooting for Slytherin?”  
  
“I came to a very important realization today,” I said. “It doesn’t matter what color the Great Hall is during the Leaving Feast or who gets bragging rights for the next year. What matters is that _I_ am the one who decides.”  
  
“There is something seriously wrong with you,” Hermione murmured.  
  
“Thank you,” I said. “Speaking of something seriously wrong, there’s Ron!”  
  
Ron sat in a bright-red armchair, an island of misery among the jovial crowd. He stared morosely at the contents of a textbook. Something was obviously amiss. Ron doesn’t read.  
  
“Ron?” Hermione said softly. “Are you alright?”  
  
Ron shrugged, muttering, “Yeah, I just…well, I was just hoping it would be me.”  
  
I plucked the book from his lap before he became confused and tried to eat it or something. “You had your twelve chances, Ron. It’s no one’s fault that the Goblet chose me in its lottery. Except possibly Dumbledore.”  
  
“You can’t blame Dumbledore for all your problems, Harry,” Hermione sighed.  
  
I shook my head. “This is different. I’m blaming him for _Ron’s_ problems.”


	7. Harry Potter vs. Alastor Moody (Pt. 2)

Hundreds of owls swooped into the Great Hall, a mid-air ocean of wings and letters. A few appreciative murmurs sounded from the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables, where our foreign guests had sat down for breakfast. Most of the Hogwarts students barely noticed their descent, well used to the daily spectacle.  
  
A small, tawny owl landed in front of Hermione and held out the latest edition of the Prophet in a delicate claw. Hermione handed it a knut. The creature hooted approvingly but continued to loiter, eying our plates.  
  
I turned to Ron and explained, “It wants your bacon.”  
  
“It’s my bacon,” he said mulishly. “There’s a whole plate right over there. Why doesn’t it take some from that?”  
  
“It probably enjoys eating it from your hand. Or maybe it just likes stealing,” I said.  
  
He glared at the bird, which merely ruffled its feathers in response. I added, “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal of this.”  
  
Ron turned his glare on me. “Why don’t you ever give up _your_ bacon?”  
  
“Don’t blame your selfishness on me,” I said.  
  
“Just give it the bacon, Ronald,” Hermione said absentmindedly as she opened up her newspaper. Scowling, Ron gave up the bacon. When he reached out to grab more from the central platter, it disappeared.  
  
Sometimes I love this castle.  
  
“Anything interesting in the news today?” I asked.  
  
“You really should get a subscription of your own,” Hermione sniffed.  
  
“Everyone knows the Daily Prophet is full of rubbish.”  
  
“It’s very important to keep informed,” she said.  
  
I shrugged. “I have people for that.”  
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You mean me?”  
  
“Well, yes, mostly you at the moment,” I admitted.  
  
Back when I was a dark lord, I used to have a whole group of Death Eaters performing that task. I also had a group that dealt with public relations. My decision to put Bellatrix in the latter group probably explains why I was considered a dark lord and not a slightly over-zealous politician.  
  
Hermione’s hands clenched the paper as her eyes darted from side to side. Suddenly, she slammed it against the table and hissed, “This is complete rubbish.”  
  
“Yes, I just told you that,” I said.  
  
“No, not the whole paper. Just this article. It’s about you, and it’s just so completely outlandish that I don’t even know where to begin in refuting it. I…here.”

She shoved it at me, and I began to read.

_ Boy-Who-Lived Rescues Reporter from Sirius Black _

_By Rita Skeeter_   
  
_After thirteen years of silence, the Boy-Who-Lived has reentered the public sphere with a bang. Only fourteen years old, young Harry Potter is determined to win the Triwizard Tournament for Hogwarts. I had the privilege of sitting down with him yesterday for an exclusive interview._   
  
_Though three years younger than the other champions (described in detail on page three), Harry has no lack of confidence, or – it seems – skill._   
  
_“Oh, I’m definitely winning,” he told me with a charming grin. “I wouldn’t have entered otherwise…I have extensive experience with these sorts of things. I’ve successfully fought a deranged DADA Professor, lured Hagrid’s monster out of its hiding place, and even faced a werewolf…I know well over two hundred spells, and I’m a runes prodigy.”_   
  
_Any of this reporter’s doubts were erased as the Boy-Who-Lived demonstrated several spells she remembers from her DADA NEWT._   
  
_“You sound like a young Lockhart,” I commented._   
  
_At this, Harry’s eyes filled with tears. “We can all hope to be as amazing as Lockhart.”_   
  
_Soon, our conversation turned to Harry’s unusual entrance into the tournament. You see, dear readers, Harry never should have been allowed to enter at all, but the protections set by Albus Dumbledore were no match for youthful ingenuity._   
  
_“Oh, he tried to keep me out.”_

_The boy laughed mischievously and refused to say any more, only adding, “I’m a very typical Gryffindor, you know. The Hat didn’t even consider anyplace else for me. Not for a single moment.”_  
  
 _I was fortunate enough to see Harry’s boasted skills in action when a great beast suddenly leapt from the grass, landing upon the boy and pinning him to the floor. Enormous fangs poised to rip at his throat, but Harry blasted the monstrous creature away with a powerful spell._  
  
 _The beast landed hard against the grass, suddenly transforming into none other than Sirius Black. At first, panic shone in Harry’s green eyes – understandable since I, Rita Skeeter, nearly fainted upon Black’s arrival. Within moments, however, Harry’s face turned resolute and a rainbow of hexes and jinxes flew at the startled convict._  
  
 _Black fled, unable to cast a single spell (For more information on the battle between You-Know-Who’s right-hand man and the Boy-Who-Lived, please turn to page two)._  
  
 _While this reporter has no doubt in the abilities of Harry Potter, my wiser readers must wonder about Albus Dumbledore. Why was Sirius Black able to sneak into Hogwarts three times under Dumbledore’s watch? How did a student, no matter his talent, outwit the old man’s defenses? How did he allow Hagrid, a half-giant with a felonious past, to spend fifty years working in the halls he once terrorized, resulting in the death of Gilderoy Lockhart?_  
  
 _Can we trust him with our children?_  
  
I looked up in confusion at Hermione, who was busy stabbing a piece of omelet with her fork. I should emphasize the use of the word “stab” in this sentence…There was a dent left in the plate. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset. It’s all true.”  
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You were attacked by Sirius Black?”  
  
“Yes,” I said.  
  
“And you didn’t tell anyone.”  
  
“I’m not sure why I would bother. It’s not like he came back or anything,” I said, “and, frankly, I found him far less powerful than everyone seems to imply.”  
  
“That’s probly ‘cause he doesn’t have a wand,” Ron said.  
  
“And so long as he doesn’t steal one from someone incompetent, we’ll all be safe.” I glanced down the table at Longbottom. It would only be prudent to steal his wand before someone else did.  
  
“You should have at least told a teacher,” Hermione muttered. She snatched back the paper, skimming it. “Two hundred spells?”  
  
I shrugged. “I could show you them, but most require a live target.”  
  
She frowned deeper. “The Hat didn’t consider putting you anywhere but Gryffindor? Alright, I know that one’s a lie.”  
  
“No it isn’t,” I said.  
  
“You were under for five minutes.”  
  
“It wanted to talk to me. I’m very famous, you know,” I said, raising my chin haughtily.  
  
“Mate, you’re starting to sound like a Slytherin again,” Ron advised.  
  
I lowered my chin and tried to look very Gryffindor by waving my arms around like an idiot. “Okay, fine, it didn’t know where to put me because I so perfectly encapsulated the values of all four houses. I was very cunning, astoundingly brave, and the most intelligent person he’d ever sorted.”  
  
Ron said, “You didn’t mention loyalty.”  
  
“Oh, right, he also thought that I would fit well in Hufflepuff since I would look even more impressive when surrounded by their bumbling. I refused that placement outright, of course.”  
  
“I don’t believe you,” Hermione said. This is exactly the sort of honesty that makes Gryffindors so easy to manipulate. Their obsession with “feelings” and “relationships” were also helpful on that front.  
  
“You’re my best friend, Hermione. Would I lie to my _best friend_?”  
  
She rolled her eyes, though an amused smile pulled at her lips, and Ron yelped, “I thought I was your best friend!”  
  
I ignored him. “Come to think of it, Skeeter did lie about one thing. She claimed that I _cried_ over Lockhart. That’s completely ludicrous, and I resent her attempts to sabotage my place in the tournament by making me seem weak.”  
  
“Crying when someone dies doesn’t make you weak,” Hermione said, looking troubled. “It just makes you human.”  
  
“Yes, and I think we’ve all established that I’m better than that,” I said.  
  
Somehow, that led to another lecture on emotional neglect.

* * *

I stormed towards the castle, Hermione and Ron at my heels like proper minions. “This is so unfair. How could I possibly have the worst score? I’m the only one who killed his dragon!”  
  
“You weren’t supposed to kill the dragon, Harry,” Hermione said.  
  
I waved my hand dismissively. “That wasn’t in the rules…The judges should all be sacked. They’re clearly biased. Except for Dumbledore, but he’s supposed to be biased for me, so we should get rid of him, as well.”  
  
“You broke all the eggs, too,” Ron said.  
  
“That also wasn’t in the rules, and that was the dragon’s fault. It was her body that crushed them.”  
  
Hermione pinched the stem of her nose. “Clearly murdering an endangered species isn’t a good enough reason to dock points.”  
  
“Not when they put one between me and eternal glory,” I said.  
  
“You were invisible the whole time!” Hermione cried. “That’s hardly glorious, and it didn’t do a very good job of entertaining the crowd.”  
  
“That’s what the explosions were for,” I insisted.  
  
“They were pretty cool,” Ron said, earning a smack on the arm from Hermione.  
  
I said, “Exactly. If I wasn’t trying to be impressive, I would have banished it or something.”  
  
Ron asked, “You can do that?”  
  
“Yes, it’s very simple,” I said dismissively. “If I’d realized dragon slaying was suddenly frowned upon, I would have just sent it home.”

* * *

 **Meanwhile, at Privet Drive**  
  
A chill raced down Petunia Dursley’s spine. She felt oddly certain that she had only narrowly avoided horrible disaster. It was, she decided, probably Harry’s fault.

* * *

Hermione stalked down the hall, the metaphorical storm cloud above her head nearly made reality as the air crackled with electricity from her accidental magic. Sparks attacked our surrounding classmates. A tiny lightning bolt leapt three feet and stung my hand. Although, considering Hermione’s magical prowess and fury towards me at that moment, that one might have been intentional magic.  
  
Hermione entered Myrtle’s loo, growling when I didn’t hesitate to follow. She then whirled around, wand out, and glared at me.

I should have known it was a trap. No one ever visits Myrtle.  
  
Hermione snapped, “Stop following me, Harry.”  
  
“Not until you tell me who’s taking you to the Yule Ball,” I said.  
  
“What does it even matter?” she cried.  
  
I sighed heavily. “You _know_ I hate it when other people keep secrets.”  
  
She rolled her eyes and lowered her wand. “You’ll find out in a few weeks like everyone else.”  
  
“But you’re my best friend. If I don’t know your secrets, I’m already failing.”  
  
Hermione simply stared at me, refusing to back down. Now it was my turn to become exasperated. I asked, “Who could possibly be so terrible that you wouldn’t even tell us about him?”  
  
“He isn’t terrible.”  
  
“Obviously you wouldn’t think that. He’s taking you to a ball. But you clearly think that we’ll disapprove.” – My eyes widened in realization – “It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?”  
  
She gaped in unrestrained shock at being found out. “What?”  
  
“Yes, yes, it all makes sense now,” I muttered. “The clear tension between you two, Ron’s bizarre hatred of Malfoy, your incorrigible flirting last year…”  
  
“He called me a Mudblood, and I hit him,” she said, enunciating each word as if I was an idiot.  
  
I nodded. “Yes, exactly. Well, I suppose you could do worse. He’s rich, and it’s not like he’s a Hufflepuff or anything.”  
  
“I am not dating Draco Malfoy.”  
  
I chuckled. “Now, now, there’s no need to be coy. This illicit romance is almost inspir–“  
  
“Viktor Krum,” she said.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m going to the ball with Viktor Krum” – Hermione frowned – “We weren’t going to tell anyone because his fans can get very possessive. Besides, you and Ron were being such gits about it that I just didn’t want to.”  
  
“The Durmstrang champion?” I said.  
  
“And seeker for the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team,” she said with a touch of pride.  
  
I laughed as I finally understood Hermione’s earlier hesitance to admit her date. “Oh, I see. How very Grindelwald of you.”  
  
She pouted, no doubt displeased that I’d caught on so quickly. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Don’t play dumb, Hermione. I know you’ve read everything.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.  
  
I smirked. “Seducing foreign wizards to steal their Dark Magic, of course.”  
  
“I’m not doing that,” she said, draping herself with moral outrage as if it were a fur coat.  
  
“You’re seriously trying to tell me that you just _accidentally_ started dating the champion of Durmstrang, a school renowned for its Dark Arts?” I said.  
  
“Yes” – Hermione sniffed and tilted her chin up arrogantly – “He’s very sweet, and _he_ asked _me_ to the Yule Ball, for your information.”  
  
It seemed that I had overestimated Hermione. I had thought her the cunning, ruthless witch that we all knew she would one day become. But she was still only fourteen and naïve in some matters. I almost felt bad having to kill what little remained of her innocence. “I hate to tell you this, but he’s just using you to steal Hogwarts’ secrets.”  
  
Hermione glared at me, wand once again raised. “EXCUSE ME?!”  
  
“I don’t know why else he would be dating the fourth year bookworm.”  
  
I’m not sure what hex she threw at me then, but – by the time I’d deflected it – Hermione had left the girls’ loo.

* * *

I wrote our latest Potions essay, relying solely on my previous knowledge. I could have used a book, but Snape would just give me a T, anyway. He always did. Beside me, Ron sprawled on the couch. His head rested against the stuffed back, and he stared listlessly at the ceiling. “Do you wanna play chess?”  
  
“No,” I said.  
  
“You’re just sore ‘cause I beat you back in First Year.”  
  
“We’ve been over this. I let you win,” I said coolly.  
  
Ron snorted. “Right, sure, why don’t you beat me now, then?”  
  
“It would be too easy.”  
  
“Yeah, easy for me,” he muttered.  
  
I ignored Ron’s continued insolence. The Gryffindor common room was crowded tonight, primarily with Weasleys. Ginevra had nabbed a place by the fire and was comforting an upset Longbottom while the twins had gathered a new crowd of curious onlookers, no doubt soon to be guinea pigs.  
  
Hermione was in the corner. Halfway through an Arithmancy assignment, she nibbled her quill thoughtfully. She occasionally glanced in our direction but made no move to approach us. Apparently I had hurt her feelings or something. Ron was similarly shunned for his continued insistence that Hermione’s date was imaginary.  
  
I smirked a bit at his clueless insensitivity. Ron truly was an idiot.  
  
But such cheerful thoughts didn’t last long as I finished my essay and found myself with no one to discuss it with. Ron glanced over hopefully. “Chess?”  
  
I missed Hermione.  
  
The thought was somewhat disturbing. I had never hesitated to dispose of an unruly minion before, and Hermione didn’t even know any Dark Magic. But it seemed that I had become used to her presence.  
  
There was only one way to deal with the situation. It would be uncomfortable, but I had spent several years suffering Bellatrix’s affections. I could survive this.  
  
I stood, walked across the room, and spoke to the startled girl in front of me.  
  
“Ginevra, it seems that I am once again in need of your services,” I said.  
  
She beamed. “Really?”  
  
“Temporarily, of course,” I clarified. “We find ourselves lacking a substitute Hermione. I presume you read?”  
  
Her silly grin still in place, Ginevra raised her eyebrows but did not deign to answer further. It seemed that she was already getting into character. I said, “Good. You’ll need to do more of it. I expect you to finish the school library as soon as possible.”  
  
“Alright,” Ginevra said.  
  
I nodded approvingly. “Come along.”  
  
As she followed me, Ginevra said to Longbottom, “I’m sure you’ll find your wand someplace, Neville.”  
  
Ron didn’t even look up at our arrival, instead staring morosely at his chessboard  
  
“Play chess with him,” I ordered.  
  
Ron scowled, grumbling, “What’s she doing here?”  
  
“I’m your new Hermione!” Ginevra chirped.  
  
“I don’t want a new Hermione,” Ron said.  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Well it’s not like _I’m_ going to help you with your homework.”

* * *

Ginevra Weasley was no Hermione Granger. Oh, she did her best – practically living in the library and dragging Ron (and often Longbottom) with her. Yet she lacked that terrifying, unswerving focus that was so quintessentially Hermione.  
  
Ron’s head thumped down on the library table. “I just don’t get it. This DADA essay is bloody impossible.”  
  
“I’m a year younger than you, and I’m doing alright,” Ginevra said.  
  
“I’m confused,” Longbottom said. “Why is Moody teaching the same class to everybody? I mean, it’s tough enough for us. The First Years must be really confused…”  
  
Ginevra laughed, ignoring her barely-begun essay. “Well, yeah, but you’ve got to admit they’ll be the coolest kids ever. I mean, they’re only eleven and already learning how to” – her voice grew gruff in imitation of the ex-auror “‘identify their enemies and maintain constant vigilance.’”  
  
“I dunno why he’s always on about that,” Ron said, “The war’s been over for ten years now. Moody’s even more paranoid than Harry.”  
  
“I like it. It’s funny,” Ginevra chirped.  
  
Ron shrugged. “I guess.”  
  
“I just can’t believe he showed us the…the Unforgivables.” Longbottom shivered, glancing around anxiously as if the very name would get him thrown in Azkaban.  
  
“That was probably a bad idea,” Ginevra said, “especially with what happened in Ravenclaw last week.”  
  
“Huh?” Ron said. Longbottom looked similarly confused, as he often does.  
  
Ginevra’s eyes widened. “You seriously didn’t hear? Everyone in Ravenclaw was talking about it.”  
  
“Why would I talk to Ravenclaws?” Ron asked.  
  
“Aren’t they in your classes and stuff?”  
  
“Yeah, so?”  
  
“Well, anyway they were playing a game of Truth or Dare” – she clarified in response to the boys’ baffled faces – “It’s some Muggle thing. But the important part is that they started using the Imperius to make people do the dares.”  
  
“Yikes,” Longbottom muttered.  
  
“People are saying Moody might even be fired over it,” Ginevra said.  
  
“I certainly hope so,” I declared. Ron’s face turned white, Ginevra jumped up from her seat, and Longbottom’s chair fell backwards as he let out a strangled squeak.  
  
“H-Harry?” Ginevra asked.  
  
“Yes?” I said.  
  
Ron’s face slowly returned to its usual color. “Why’re you under the cloak again?”  
  
“I think Moody is trying to kill me,” I said.

He’d suggested I use a broomstick in the First Task. Like anyone could outfly a dragon, let alone _me_. Further, he was always skulking about. Watching.  
  
“…Okay,” Ron said slowly, casting a doubtful glance in my general direction.  
  
Ginevra beamed. “Let me know if he tries anything, and I’ll help.”  
  
I nodded, realized they couldn’t see me, and then realized that I didn’t actually care.  
  
Ginevra peered at the fallen Longbottom and asked, “Are you alright, Neville?”  
  
“I…I think so?” He scrambled to his feet, swaying a bit.  
  
“Got any injuries, Longbottom?” a gruff voice barked from across the room.  
  
“Uh, n-no sir,” Longbottom stuttered.  
  
“Good” – Moody’s eyes turned to the place where I sat under my invisibility cloak – “He faints, you get him to Pomfrey, Potter.”  
  
Dear Merlin, he could see through the cloak. I groaned, shoving away Longbottom’s textbook so that I could slump against the newly-opened table space. Ron flinched. “Do you always have to do that when you’re invisible?”  
  
“Ron, stop complaining. I don’t need your negativity further sullying this already horrible year.”  
  
“Your year’s been bad?” Ginevra asked.  
  
I pulled off the now-useless cloak. “Absolutely terrible. Oh, I thought for sure it would be great to enter the Triwizard Tournament, but it’s brought nothing but trouble. The judges are all unfair, Hermione has sold our secrets to Durmstrang, Moody is trying to kill me, Ron can’t get a date to the Yule Ball because he’s a werewolf...”  
  
“I’m not a werewolf,” Ron growled.  
  
“Denial is unattractive, Ron,” I said. “If you would just admit it, at least you could nab one of the creature lovers.”  
  
“I’m not going to pretend to be a werewolf to get a girlfriend,” Ron said.  
  
Ginevra grinned mischievously and said, “I know someone who needs a date to the ball.”

* * *

After the requisite Champions’ dance, I retreated to a more strategic position: A table by the door. There, no one could “accidently” drop a love potion in my drink. I still had to guard it against Ginevra, but that was a definite improvement over the last ball I’d attended.  
  
While I hardly cared for these things, Ron was downright miserable.  
  
“I can’t believe you set me up with Loony Lovegood,” Ron groaned.  
  
Ginevra elbowed him. “It’s not like you were going with anyone else. And she’s right there, so you shouldn’t say things like that.”  
  
“She’s Lovegood. She won’t notice,” Ron said.  
  
“She’s not deaf,” Ginevra snapped. “She’s just, erm…Luna.”  
  
Luna – a humming girl in a tentacle dress and Butterbeer cork necklace – seemed quite enraptured by the ceiling. I followed her gaze and then squinted my eyes to look for invisible attackers. Perhaps the Death Eaters had managed to successfully take the initiative twice in one year. I was ready to draw my wand and start casting when I was startled by a sudden movement behind me.  
  
I turned around to find Hermione settling at the table with us, the Durmstrang champion standing awkwardly behind her chair. She said, “Hi, Harry.”  
  
“Good to have you back with us,” I said, glancing towards Luna, who had turned her attention to the dance floor.  
  
Ginevra said, “I’m confused. Aren’t you guys not speaking?”  
  
Hermione primly set a napkin in her lap as Krum sat in the chair beside her. “Yes, well, I was going to wait until Harry apologized, but then I realized that he would never actually do that. So I’ve just given up.”  
  
I patted her hand and graciously said, “Apology accepted Hermione.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Well, thank Merlin for _that_.”  
  
I turned to Ginevra. “It appears that we no longer need your help. You may go.”  
  
“But I’m your date!” she cried.  
  
I paused for a moment. “Hm. You do have a point. I suppose you can stay for the evening, then. But no longer than that.”  
  
“How did you two end up going together, anyway?” Hermione asked. “You aren’t exactly close.”  
  
“She was the only one who asked me, if you can believe that.” I shook my head at my bad luck. Hermione just seemed perplexed.  
  
“Harry, you do realize that _you_ were supposed to ask a girl out, right?”  
  
“That makes absolutely no sense. I’m clearly the desirable one. Why should I have to demean myself?”  
  
Luna hummed quite loudly and murmured, “The Nargles are everywhere tonight. Too many mistletoes, I suppose.”  
  
I asked, “Nargles?”  
  
“Strange little creatures,” she told me. “Invisible and always taking things that don’t belong to them. They’re quite rude, come to think of it.”  
  
Invisible, easily harvested, and capable of carrying human items…I leaned forward eagerly. “Can they be weaponized?”  
  
“I don’t think so. They don’t listen very well to instruction.”  
  
I was thinking more the Imperius, although I suppose that wouldn’t occur to most thirteen-year-old girls. Not everyone is Hermione. Hermione herself looked quite flustered. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of those before. Have you, Viktor?”  
  
“They don’t exist,” Ron interrupted. “Luna’s crazy.”  
  
“Luna isn’t crazy!” Ginevra exclaimed.  
  
I set a hand upon her shoulder. “Oh, she’s definitely crazy, but that doesn’t mean we should respect her any less. She is the third type of Ravenclaw, after all.”  
  
“Third type of Ravenclaw? Vot is that?” Krum asked.  
  
“You see, each of the Hogwarts houses has three main personality types. In Ravenclaw, there are the clever students, the ones who want to appear clever, and those who have stared too deeply into the heart of magic and gone mad because of it. Like Professor Trelawney, or Ravenclaw herself.”  
  
“You can’t seriously be saying that she’s some sort of magical oracle?” Hermione said.  
  
“Oh, but I am. Tell me, Luna, what does magic truly look like?”  
  
“Very blue,” she told me.  
  
I nodded. “Fascinating.”  
  
“So, what about the other houses, then?” Ron asked.  
  
“The Hufflepuffs are made up of those students whose only talent is being hardworking, those who have absolutely no talent and end there up there by default, and those who surround themselves with Hufflepuffs to look better in comparison. Like Hufflepuff herself.  
  
“Then, there are the Slytherins. The first two groups are Purebloods with no redeeming qualities and half-bloods who wish they were Purebloods and otherwise have no redeeming qualities. The third type is made up of children who were raised in the Muggle world and like snakes and don’t know any better. So then they have to claw their way to the top, but no one is really their friend because they are _terrifying_.”  
  
I was breathing rather heavily at that point, and Krum seemed unsettled.  
  
“…Like Slytherin himself?” Ron said.  
  
“No, Ron. That would be stupid. Slytherin was obviously a Ravenclaw,” I said. I have no clue where he gets these ideas.  
  
“You did not mention the Gryffindors,” Krum pointed out.  
  
“Ooh! I know this one,” Ginevra squealed. “The Gryffindors are stupidly brave people, people who just like showing off, and the secretly evil students who no one will ever suspect because they’re Gryffindors.”  
  
“Like Sirius Black?” Ron guessed.  
  
I nodded vigorously. “Yes! That’s right, Ron. In fact, he’s probably the only example, but Sirius Black is heinous enough to deserve a category all his own. Everyone knows that Gryffindors are instinctively good. Isn’t that right, Hermione?”  
  
She didn’t agree with me, choosing instead to bury her face in her hands.  
  
Viktor Krum chuckled. “Your friends are very strange, yes?”  
  
Hermione took Viktor by the arm to lead him to the dance floor and presumably far away from us. “You have absolutely no idea.”


	8. Harry Potter vs. Alastor Moody (Pt. 3)

It was breakfast time, but Hermione wasn’t eating. She held my golden egg in her hands, staring down at it with pinched lips. “I can’t believe you’re just ignoring this. I mean, really, Harry, this is a very dangerous competition. You can’t just throw away opportunities to prepare yourself.”  
  
“I don’t need the help, and I’ve always despised riddles,” I said.  
  
“It probably isn’t even that hard!” Hermione cried. “I could solve it for you, and Viktor’s already figured it out. I could ask him –“  
  
“No, Hermione. That would be cheating.”  
  
“You cheat all the time,” Hermione said.  
  
“That’s true,” I admitted. “But I cheat in ways that require skill and dedication. Asking a competitor is just pathetic.”  
  
“It’s not like he’s a Slytherin or anything.” Ron glared at the green table, as he often does.  
  
I could tell that Hermione hadn’t entirely given up by the way she frowned down at the egg, not even noticing when Ron stole her biscuit. She absentmindedly paid an owl for the day’s Prophet, and the owl stole Ron’s newly-acquired biscuit. Ron was shouting at it when one of our classmates – Lavender Brown – leaned over.  
  
“I _hate_ to be the bearer of bad news,” the blonde crooned in a way that said quite the opposite, “but you might want to read that paper.”  
  
Startled, Hermione opened it and let out an indignant squawk. “What is wrong with that Skeeter woman?!”  
  
“What did she do?” Ron asked.  
  
“She wrote about me, and she’s talking like I’m some sort of” – Hermione wrinkled her nose – “seductress.”  
  
She cleared her throat, quoting, “The rather plain girl has been working her way through Hogwarts’ most eligible bachelors. First, she led on likely Triwizard Tournament winner Harry Potter. Then, she had an infamous tryst with Draco Malfoy” – Ron choked on his mouthful of food – “Now, she’s moved on to seventeen-year-old Bulgarian National Quidditch Team seeker, Viktor Krum. With two Triwizard competitors under Miss Granger’s thumb, this reporter has to ask: Could a certain veela be the next champion charmed?”  
  
“That…that…” Hermione’s fingers were white as she clutched the golden egg. “I won’t let her get away with this.”  
  
With a fervent gleam in her eye, Hermione stormed from the hall, not even noticing that she still held my prize from the First Task. I almost felt sorry for Skeeter. She had no idea who she’d trifled with when she’d revealed Hermione’s latest scheme.

* * *

“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, nervously peering into the black depths of the lake as we waited for the Second Task to begin.  
  
“Absolutely fine,” I declared.  
  
“You can be, um, underwater? Without dying?”  
  
“I’m Harry Potter,” I said flatly, “and you’re starting to sound like Hermione.”  
  
Ron shuddered at the comparison. “Right. Sorry, mate. It’s just that I’ve heard drowning really sucks, and Hermione is…wherever she is.”  
  
Hermione had disappeared, no doubt busy plotting against her newest enemy. There hadn’t been time to find a substitute, so it seemed that Ron was attempting to fulfill both roles. This would have been admirable if he wasn’t failing so spectacularly.  
  
I surveyed the area. Spectators milled about the lake, sometimes poking a foot in only to hastily withdraw it once they felt the frigid water. The Weasley children had consumed a large portion of the stands, as per usual, and Ron headed towards them.  
  
Moody was stalking about, glaring at everyone who looked slightly suspicious. This list included Karkaroff, Severus, and me. Draco Malfoy practically fell into the lake in an attempt avoid him. The boy had been suprisingly timid since his return from Christmas break. Clearly, his confidence was shaken by Hermione’s rejection.  
  
The current object of her affections waved me over from his place at the starting line. Krum asked, “Do you know vhere Er-my-o-knee is?”  
  
I shrugged. “Probably in the library plotting against Skeeter. It’s the sort of thing she does.”  
  
Krum nodded, chuckling. “You did not find the clue?”  
  
“I didn’t need to,” I said. “It’s just water.”  
  
One of the judges – a pompous ministry worker whose name I hadn’t bothered learning – cleared his throat. “Everyone is ready to start, then?”  
  
Krum nodded, but Delacour and I merely shot the judge disdainful looks.  
  
The judge looked nervous. “Alright. The Second Task will start on my whistle. The champions have precisely an hour to recover what’s been taken from them. The task begins in 3…2…1.”  
  
He blew a whistle, and I immediately whirled around to face Delacour. I shouted, “Silencio!”  
  
She was sputtering soundlessly when I left. It was possible she would manage to overpower my spell and regain her voice, provided she knew the countercharm. But Beauxbatons had a poor reputation for nonverbal magic, and a slight delay would give me a head start in the race.  
  
I jumped over the lake, casting the Ebublio Jinx at my chest. A large bubble full of air surrounded me, as sunk into the lake. I cast the Aqua Eructo Charm, causing a jet of water to shoot from my wand. This propelled me forward, deep into the water and towards the merpeople’s song.  
  
I continued like that for some time. The Ebublio bubble protected me from the freezing lake water and various nuisances, such as Grindylows. As time passed, however, it grew thinner and more fragile.  
  
Eventually, I realized that I was being followed. A glance backwards revealed an enormous shark coming after me. It was clearly charmed to attack competitors. A severing charm sent it hurtling towards the bottom of the lake, clouds of red floating in its wake.  
  
Not long afterwards, I encountered the first roughly-hewn, dilapidated homes of the merpeople village. The hideous creatures peered out at me from their glassless windows, their grey-skinned faces framed by seaweed-like hair. I never tried to recruit the mermen in my previous life, primarily because they creep me out.  
  
In the town square, a whole crowd of them were gathered. They continued to sing, yellow eyes watching as I ended the Ebublio bubble and replaced it with a Bubblehead Charm. A great, stone statue of a merman towered at their center, three girls tied to his tail – Hermione, Ginevra, and a young blonde.  
  
I paused before them, considering the situation. Clearly, there was one hostage for each competitor. But who was mine?  
  
If I had to choose one to save, it would undoubtedly be Hermione. Yet she had gone to the Yule Ball with Krum, just as Ginevra had with me.  
  
The hostage wasn’t based upon one’s Yule date, however, because I was fairly certain that Delacour had not gone with a little girl. Beyond that, it was entirely possible I had interacted with the child before and simply didn’t remember.  
  
I refused to lose points for rescuing the wrong person. Hermione or Ginevra were both perfectly reasonable options, and the little girl wasn’t out of the question, either. At that point, it was just easier to take them all.  
  
I threw a blasting curse at the base of the statue’s tail. Suddenly, the merpeople stopped singing. They raised their spears and approached me. I was surrounded.

* * *

“While that does explain Mr. Krum’s unfortunate injury and your decision to take all three hostages – destroying a merperson relic in the process – I’m afraid I still don’t understand what you did afterwards,” Dumbledore said, looking very tired.  
  
This was a small improvement over the rest of the judges, who appeared livid.  
  
“It was a perfectly logical decision,” I insisted. “The mermen were using their environmental advantage against me. So I took it from them.”  
  
“You banished all the water in the lake. You truly don’t consider that excessive?” Dumbledore asked.  
  
“Not at all. Besides, I figured the spectators would have a better time if they could actually watch the task. Really, I was doing you all a favor.”  
  
Dumbledore said, “But the merpeople are unable to survive on air for more than a few minutes. You greatly endangered their lives, my boy.”  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “They greatly endangered mine first when they attacked me with spears, and, really, a few less mermen is hardly a problem. They kill more students than the moving staircase…and we all know what I did to the moving staircase.”  
  
The denizens of Hogwarts simultaneously shivered, though the foreigners seemed rather perplexed. Karkaroff scowled. “Viktor Krum also had gills at the time, and he was already injured by your attack.”  
  
“And my Fleur was fifty feet in ze air when ze water disappeared!” Madame Maxime said, “and zat is after ze ‘orrible boy cast a Silencing Spell on ‘er.”  
  
“There weren’t any rules that said I couldn’t attack the competition. Honestly, I thought that was the entire point,” I said.  
  
“It was a race, not a duel,” Karkaroff said.  
  
“Yes, exactly, and I won,” I said. “In fact, I’m the only one who brought his hostage back at all…whichever one she was.”  
  
“Ginevra Weasley,” Dumbledore said.  
  
I shook my head, dismayed by their ridiculous expectations. “How was I supposed to guess that? We aren’t even friends.”  
  
Some distance across the grounds, a still-dripping Ginevra said, “We will be!”  
  
I shivered. This was beginning to remind me uncomfortably of the Bellatrix situation. “And I’m not sure why you think it’s my responsibility to protect everyone. It’s your competition. You should have expected I would do something like this.”  
  
Moody grunted, “That’s why I put up the splash guard.”  
  
“See, why can’t you all be like Moody?” I asked. We all turned our attention towards the ex-auror, who was currently shimmering with no less than twenty protective charms.  
  
Dumbledore sighed. “Could you return the lake water, now that the task is over?”  
  
“I would do that,” I said, “except that I’m not entirely sure where I sent it.”

* * *

 **Meanwhile, at Privet Drive**  
  
Petunia Dursley stood knee-deep in the flooded street, staring blankly at what was once her house. The front door had floated to the very end of her waterlogged lawn. Every window was broken, and what little she could see of her immaculate carpets and organized kitchen was entirely ruined. She didn’t dare to think of what had happened to the garden.  
  
As she picked up a floating photograph of baby Dudley, Petunia wondered – for a moment – where her life had gone so wrong. But the answer was obvious:

  
The moment she accepted Harry Potter into her life. This was all his fault. Things usually were.  
  
With a firm set to her mouth and her spindly fingers curled into a fist, Petunia trudged towards her home in the hope that some of her previous life was still salvageable.  
  
They were, she decided, moving.

* * *

“Holy harpies! Have you seen this?” Ginevra Weasley cried, ruining a perfectly peaceful breakfast.  
  
Ron’s head jerked up, and he asked, “Muh? Wha’s it?”  
  
“You’re talking with your mouth full again, Ronald,” Hermione chided. She hadn’t even stirred at Ginevra’s exclamation, idly reading a book on Charms.  
  
Ginevra waved the morning Prophet at us so that it rustled a bit. “They printed a retraction! I didn’t even know they could do that.”  
  
“It must have been a grievous error to prompt them to admit a mistake. They’ve probably offended hundreds of wizards, or perhaps a truly powerful group,” I said thoughtfully. “What was the article about? The Wizengamot? Dumbledore? The Dark Lord?”  
  
“Um, it was about Hermione, actually,” Ginevra said. “Skeeter says that she trusted the wrong source, Hermione actually wasn’t dating everyone in school, and Skeeter felt ‘compelled to correct this mistake due to her journalistic integrity.’”  
  
I slowly turned to face Hermione, who had returned to her book with a pleased smirk on her face. “Hermione…what did you do?”  
  
“Who says I did anything?” Hermione sniffed. “Maybe Rita Skeeter just realized that she made a mistake –“  
  
Even Ron snorted in response to that. “Yeah, right. I’m with Harry: You did something.”  
  
“It’s pretty obvious,” Ginevra agreed.  
  
Giggling, Hermione glanced around nervously but nodded. “Well, alright. We probably shouldn’t talk about this here, though. It’s rather public.”  
  
“Behaving like a Slytherin, ‘Mione,” Ron said.  
  
“Don’t care, Ronald,” she said in a sing-song voice. She was positively giddy. I was beginning to feel legitimately concerned for Rita Skeeter.  
  
Hermione stood. “Shall we go, then?”  
  
I shook my head. “No need. Muffliato.”  
  
The surrounding conversations turned to an insect-like buzzing. Hermione sat back down and asked, “Ooh, is that an anti-eavesdropping charm? I’ve read about those.”  
  
“I’m well aware that you’ve read about everything, and, yes, it is an anti-eavesdropping spell. The only people who can understand our conversation now are the three of us.”  
  
My point was punctuated by a sudden and loud buzzing from across the table as Ginevra realized that she was not included in the charm. Ron edged away from his rapidly-reddening sister. “So how’d you do it?”  
  
Hermione said, “I was out on the grounds, practicing an animagus detection charm. It seemed like a good idea after the attack from Sirius Black that Harry _never told me about_ ” – she glared at me before resuming – “Imagine my surprise when it came back positive. Apparently, Rita Skeeter has been skulking around as a beetle. So I caught her in my hand – “  
  
“You squished her, didn’t you?” I asked. Suddenly, everything was very clear to me: The retraction, Skeeter’s claims of journalistic integrity, Hermione’s inexplicable good mood…  
  
She sputtered. “W-what? But…Harry, she just published an article.”  
  
“Polyjuice potion. It would allow you to impersonate her for long enough to get the article through, and it would also keep anyone from knowing she was missing, obscuring her time of death. Since she died in her animagus form, there isn’t a corpse. It’s the perfect crime.”  
  
“I would never –“  
  
“It’s not like you haven’t done something like this before,” I said. “Don’t you remember Second Year? I shudder to think what would have happened if we hadn’t stopped you.”  
  
Hermione growled low in her throat. “You are just horrible sometimes!”  
  
“I’m not the one who killed a reporter,” I said.  
  
“Uh, I don’t think she killed anyone,” Ron said. “Right, Hermione?”  
  
“Obviously,” she huffed. “I’m just threatening to report that she’s an illegal animagus. I also kept her in a bottle for a while.”  
  
I frowned. “For how long?”  
  
“A couple of days,” Hermione said.  
  
“Did you feed her?” I asked.  
  
Hermione paled. “It didn’t really occur to me.”  
  
“You gave her water at least…” I said.  
  
“Um…”  
  
I shook my head, caught between admiration and shock. “And now you’re blackmailing her? I don’t know why you didn’t just kill her quickly. It would have been kinder.”  
  
I have a great distaste for most forms of torture. My only exception to this is Crucio, which is much cleaner and does not have as many long-lasting side effects. Well, unless the victims are driven insane. I rarely kept prisoners long enough to reach that point, however, and opted to kill as often as possible. Further, I sought to never leave a child orphaned for more than a few minutes.  
  
And people said I was immoral!  
  
Ron said, “That doesn’t seem fair. It’s not like she meant to hurt her.”  
  
“Intention is irrelevant. Besides,” I said, “who knows when Skeeter will try to retaliate. She could be here right now. Listening.”  
  
We fell into a wary, thoughtful silence. The only sound was the persistent buzzing of Ginevra Weasley.

* * *

“I feel a sense of impending doom,” I declared.  
  
“Isn’t that how you always feel?” Ron asked.  
  
“This is stronger than usual.”  
  
I glanced around the area surrounding Dumbledore’s enormous maze with a thoughtful air. Moody limped outside, glaring at anyone who dared to look at him for more than a moment. I turned my attention swiftly away.  
  
Ginevra hovered nearby. She had ingratiated herself with a group of younger Hufflepuffs, but she was clearly paying more attention to Ron and I than her companions.  
  
Dumbledore, Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime were arguing about something at the judge’s table. Hermione stood nearby, spoke a few words, and then fled their continued shouting. For a moment, I wondered if she and Dumbledore were collaborating on an insidious plan. But, no, that was ridiculous. Hermione would never share her power with Dumbledore.  
  
Delacour was chattering in animated French with her family. Krum, though surrounded by his own family, seemed distracted. His eyes darted around uneasily and his mouth was set in a firm line.  
  
Hermione, hurrying back from the judge’s table, said, “Maybe you wouldn’t be so nervous if you’d actually prepared for the task.”  
  
I scoffed. “I’m not nervous, Hermione. I’m suspicious.”  
  
“Paranoid,” Ron muttered.  
  
I turned to Hermione. “Right, speaking of Moody, I want you to watch him. I think he might try something today.”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry, Moody isn’t going to –“  
  
“For Merlin’s sake, Hermione! For once in your life, try to save a friend instead of killing him,” I snapped.  
  
She lips twisted in an ugly manner, but the girl begrudgingly turned her attention towards Moody. I cleared my throat and spoke to Ron. “And you should watch Krum. He seems suspicious.”  
  
“Harry!” Hermione cried.  
  
“I knew you wouldn’t be objective about this. That’s why I’ve entrusted the task to Ron.”  
  
Ron grinned, looking pleased with himself.  
  
Ginevra sidled a little closer to us. “I can watch Fleur.”  
  
I waved her off. “Do whatever you like.”  
  
While Ginevra busied herself with her useless idea, I would observe the most likely candidate: Dumbledore. I glared at him as he sat perfectly calm amid his fellow judges’ bickering, smug beneath his white beard and floral robes. Despicable.  
  
“What were you doing over there, anyway?” Ron asked Hermione.  
  
“Oh, um…” Hermione suddenly fell into a coughing fit, and I edged away from her. I had no intention of catching some sort of Muggle disease.  
  
She cleared her throat and spoke primly. “Sorry about that. I must have gotten a bit of a cold during the last task.”  
  
“But it’s been four months,” Ron said. Even without moving my gaze from Dumbledore, I could picture the wrinkling of his Weasley face.  
  
“Certain viruses are able to incubate for long periods, and my immune system was heavily compromised. I just went over to ask Dumbledore about the Ancient Runes curriculum. I was confused about…the order in which certain runes are taught, but he explained it to me.”  
  
“That’s nice, Hermione,” I said absentmindedly. Dumbledore’s skeletal hand gripped his wand, and he rose smoothly. Moody had migrated to his side – something I would have been aware of earlier if Hermione had been taking her sentry duties seriously.  
  
Dumbledore pointed his wand towards himself, and I suppressed my disappointment when he only cast a Sonorous Charm. His voice echoed across the grounds, drawing everyone’s attention. “Much as it pains me to further delay this exciting event. We have decided upon a few rules for the task.”  
  
Curious whispering swept the crowd. Dumbledore peered down at a roll of parchment. “First, there will be no intentionally damaging the maze through means including – but not limited to – flooding it, setting it on fire, tearing it apart with wind or explosive magic, dismantling the runes that constructed it, or the use of fiendfyre.”  
  
“Oh come on, like anyone would seriously use fiendfyre,” one of the older Hogwarts students grumbled.  
  
Karkaroff glared darkly in my direction. “It needed to be said.”  
  
“Nor can anyone remove the maze from school grounds.”  
  
“Not even temporarily?” I asked.  
  
“No, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore said with a merry twinkle of his eyes. “Second, any deaths that occur (whether of humans or creatures) will be examined and may lead to the loss of the championship. Further, no one is permitted to sabotage their fellow champions prior to entering the maze.”  
  
“Ooh, Fleur looks mad,” Ginevra said.  
  
Fleur did, indeed, look mad. Her clenched jaw seemed to harden her cheekbones, and a red line flushed across her face. With a string of French curses, she slashed her wand downwards.  
  
My feeling of impending doom fell to its normal level. Krum also seemed to relax. He waved happily at Hermione.  
  
Dumbledore said, “Third, no champion may bring a magical artifact, aside from their wand, inside the maze.”  
  
I shoved my invisibility cloak at Ron, scowling.  
  
“Fourth, no one is allowed to summon the Cup.”  
  
Well, there went Plan A.  
  
I suspect Dumbledore realized that, as well. Why else would he be so sickeningly cheerful? “Finally, no champion may enlist the aid of any other human or magical creature, such as a house-elf.”  
  
Oh, that was why.

I whirled around to glare at Hermione. “Oh, come on! That isn’t even fair.”  
  
“Neither is using _slave labor_ to _cheat_ ,” she said.  
  
“It wasn’t cheating until he said it was.”  
  
“It was morally!”  
  
“Don’t pretend to care about morals now” – I ran a hand through my hair – “What am I supposed to do? Dumbledore just got rid of all my good plans.”  
  
“Why don’t you just go and do the maze the way it’s supposed to be done?” Ron said.  
  
“Ron, that’s ridiculous. I’m not some sort of Gryffin…on second thought, that’s genius.”  
  
“It is?” Ron said, undermining his short burst of intelligence.  
  
“I’ve been acting too much like a Slytherin lately,” I said. “Yes, it’s ensured my success. But what sort of victory will it be when everyone decides I’m evil and refuses to hire me in a teaching position? No, I will win this like a Gryffindor.”

* * *

On fire for the third time in the past half-hour, I reflected that acting like a Gryffindor was a terrible idea. I should have known this earlier, of course, because it was Ron’s.  
  
I cast Aguamenti to put out the fire, but my impressive power made the jet of water significantly larger than I intended.  
  
Wet and miserable, I trudged through the maze. It was at that point that I saw the sphinx. I groaned. Great, more riddles. I was beginning to wonder if the tournament was designed by a Ravenclaw.  
  
The sphinx turned her almond-shaped eyes to me, looking far too pleased with herself considering she was almost certainly going to die at my hand.  
  
She said, “You are very near your goal. The quickest way is past me.”  
  
I pointed my wand at the creature. “If you value your life, I would suggest you move.”  
  
The sphinx chuckled gruffly. “If you value yours, I would suggest you not attack me. Solve my riddle and –“  
  
“Wait a second,” I said. “What if I tell you a riddle, and – if you can’t solve it – you let me pass?”  
  
The sphinx cocked her head curiously. “I accept your challenge, though I warn you; there is no such thing as a riddle I cannot solve. And, when I solve it, you shall have to find another path.”  
  
“It’s a good thing you won’t, then. I can’t afford to waste time.” This was primarily because the judges refused to let me enter the maze first even though I clearly won every task.  
  
“Your riddle?”  
  
I nodded, taking a few moments to fix it in my head. Smirking, I began.  
  
“Born in a garden, I live in a house.  
  
Sleeping with lions, I’m more of a mouse.  
  
When death comes to collect me  
  
A hungry grim is all I see.”  
  
The sphinx was thoughtful for a few minutes, finally saying, “The answer is man.”  
  
“Wrong,” I said. The answer was: Ron’s dead rat. Or, alternatively, whatever I decided it was because I’m not going to play fair when my victory is at stake.  
  
The sphinx’s mouth fell open, reminding me of Hermione. “But that’s impossible! The answer is clearly man.”  
  
“No, it isn’t.”  
  
“Then what is the answer?”  
  
I sighed heavily. “Look, if I had gotten it wrong, would you have told me the answer? No, because that would only disrespect my intelligence.”  
  
The sphinx attacked me then. This is exactly the reason everyone dislikes magical creatures. They go back on their deals and are just generally unreasonable.

* * *

I followed Delacour’s screams. This wasn’t out of any foolish, Gryffindor chivalry. It was simply the intelligent thing to do.

The maze had been suspiciously easy. Oh, sure, it was filled with all sorts of monsters and traps, but this was designed by _Dumbledore._ Where were the deadly creatures?  
  
The answer was obvious: They were surrounding the Cup.  
  
Ergo, whatever was killing Delacour was almost certainly at the center of the maze. Also, she was currently beating me, which was absolutely not okay.  
  
I was fortunate. Delacour was only a few turns away, and a hasty point-me spell guided me to her. When I arrived, however, I paused in surprise.  
  
The girl was not being ravaged by a dragon or clubbed by a mountain troll. She was suffering under the Cruciatius, and the one casting it was none other than Viktor Krum.  
  
Delacour let out a final shriek and fell unconscious, unable to take the pain any longer. Rage filled my chest, and my hands shook as they clenched my wand. How dare he…How dare he…  
  
I spat, “Hermione taught you this. Didn’t she?”  
  
How dare he take advantage of Hermione’s insidious genius! Only I’m allowed to do that.  
  
Krum turned towards me, his eyes devoid of emotion. It seemed that I had been right all along. Krum appeared to be a likable, perfectly ordinary student – like me – but he was nothing more than a cold, calculating schemer.  
  
More importantly, he was a cold, calculating schemer who was trying to steal _my_ victory and Hogwarts secrets. And that was simply unacceptable.  
  
I quirked an eyebrow. “No answer? Coward. Have you no – Stupefy!”  
  
Krum fell to the ground, body frozen. He’d never even lifted his wand.  
  
“Well, that was depressingly easy,” I muttered, already wandering off to find the Cup.  
  
After a few more minor skirmishes with the wildlife, I found it. The Triwizard Cup gleamed in the center of the maze. I took a moment to straighten my robes and smooth down my hair so that I would look properly impressive when I emerged victoriously outside of Hogwarts. After a moment’s thought, I rumpled my clothes and tousled my hair again. That way I would look more heroic.  
  
Grinning, I grabbed my trophy and felt the familiar tug of a portkey at my navel. As the world began to twist and stretch me like taffy, I was struck by a sudden thought:  
  
Was the Triwizard Cup supposed to do that?


	9. Harry Potter vs. Alastor Moody (Pt. 4)

I fell retching on the grass, dropping the Cup as I tried to recover from the clearly shoddy portkey. A quick survey of my surroundings revealed that I was nowhere near Hogwarts.

That was a problem, since I would be unable to properly bask in my victory. Additionally, there was a Death Eater standing beside a gaping cauldron and pointing his wand at me. That was also a problem.  
  
I rolled to avoid a hex, jumping to my feet and aiming my wand at my opponent. I smirked as I realized which of my followers was currently failing to kill me. I would know that hair anywhere. “Lucius. Who are you working for?”  
  
Lucius immediately confirmed my suspicions because he is an idiot. “What makes you think I’m working for anyone, Potter?”  
  
I snorted. “As if you could pull something like this off on your own.”  
  
“I could absolutely –“  
  
A rasping voice suddenly interrupted him. “Don’t argue with the boy, Lucius. When you lose, that will reflect poorly on _me._ ”  
  
I scowled. “Who just said that?”  
  
A guttural chuckle came from behind my former minion, and the voice said, “Turn around. I’d like to do this face-to-face.”  
  
Lucius turned around, awkwardly holding his arm so that his wand still faced me. With his free hand, he parted his luxurious, blond hair. I always knew he was hiding something in there, but I never could have imagined the truth. A second face – wrinkly and purpled – looked out from the back of his head.  
  
It said, “Harry Potter. Kidnapped and held at wandpoint after what should have been your greatest triumph…This would be so much more poetic if you were in your Third Year.”  
  
I asked, “What do you know about Third Year? And just who are you, anyway?”  
  
The face’s mouth curled into a thin, sickly smile. “I am Lord Voldemort.”  
  
“What?! That’s impossible,” I said. Because it was completely impossible, unless another Horcrux had gone rogue.  
  
“Did you truly think I was dead?” he asked. “Did you think you’d actually killed me?”  
  
“I…” – I paused, deciding that information-gathering was the best tactic for the moment – “Yes, and I’m not sure I believe you. If you haven’t been dead, then where have you been all these years?”  
  
The face scowled. “Ah, yes. It’s a fascinating tale. You see, after the destruction of my body, I was sent hurtling towards the forests of Albania, screaming the entire way. THREE HOURS OF SCREAMING.”  
  
“Really? You’d think you would stop after the first hour, when it started to become normal.”  
  
He rudely ignored me. “I wandered Albania as a wraith, until a bumbling professor stumbled upon me. I possessed him and snuck into Hogwarts right under the old fool’s nose – hoping to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. With it, I planned to regain my body. Unfortunately, my host died before I could acquire it because you murdered him.”  
  
I nearly dropped my wand in shock. “Quirrel? You were possessing Quirrel?”  
  
“Yes,” he said.  
  
“But Quirrel was a horrible Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher! Why didn’t you help him?”  
  
“Why would I train Dumbledore’s future soldiers? If he wants me to do that, he’ll have to hire me, like all the other professors…After Quirrel’s death, I wandered the Forbidden Forest, again without a clear plan. Yet, one day, I saw something that inspired me to take action.”  
  
“Was it a unicorn?” I asked.  
  
“No, it was a grim. It raced through the forest as if in fear of its life. Suddenly, I remembered that I didn’t become immortal so that I could spend an eternity as a wraith. I became immortal because…actually, I don’t recall why.”  
  
I do. It was the only way I could survive Hogwarts long enough to graduate. Then I found out that seven was a magical number, and, by the time I got over my Arithmancy phase, I’d already made four and it seemed stupid to stop there.  
  
He continued, “Regardless, I realized that it was pointless to wait for followers who would never come. I would simply have to find one so spineless that I could intimidate him while I had neither a body nor any magical power.”  
  
“So you went to Malfoy,” I murmured, nodding. It was all beginning to make sense.  
  
He snorted. “I presume you’ve dealt with him before?”  
  
“The younger one, mostly,” I said.  
  
“Yes, the clone. He was very helpful in keeping me in touch with my spy at Hogwarts…in order to arrange our meeting here today.”  
  
Curse Severus and his unwavering loyalty. I glared. “So it was you, then, who’s been sabotaging me all this time. I should have known the judges would never be so biased without some malicious, external influence.”  
  
The face was silent for a moment, likely marveling at my astounding intelligence, before saying, “Yes, of course I did. All…all part of my plan. I am the Dark Lord, after all. And it’s far past time that I returned to my former glory. Lucius! Begin the ritual.”  
  
A curtain of blond hair once again hid the hideous face as Lucius bent down to grab a skull, tossing it into the cauldron. “Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son…Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master.”  
  
Lucius placed his wand atop his wrist, murmuring a severing spell. With an unsettling crack, the man’s hand fell off and into the cauldron. He turned towards me, and said, “Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.”  
  
“Since when are we enemies?” I exclaimed, wand still aimed at Lucius.  
  
“We’ve always been enemies,” was the muffled response from beneath Lucius’s hair.  
  
“I just met you today,” I said.  
  
“You killed me when you were a child.”  
  
“Well, yes, but you can hardly blame me for what I did when I was an infant.”  
  
“I manage well enough,” he said.  
  
“Well, I don’t blame myself. Or you. It was just bad luck, really.” I wasn’t entirely sure what had happened that Halloween night, but I was completely certain it wasn’t my fault.  
  
“Lucius, turn around and move your bloody hair,” the face snapped. Lucius did so, though he had to drop his wand to manage, since his left hand was currently floating in a cauldron. I presume he didn’t want to get blood in his hair.  
  
Again visible, the face continued, “…You killed my host.”  
  
“That was an accident,” I said.  
  
His voice rose incredulously. “You used the killing curse!”  
  
“The killing part wasn’t an accident. But I didn’t know he was your host at the time, so it wasn’t like I was deliberately defying you.” That reminded me; I’d never gotten around to rewriting that list.  
  
“…Well, I consider us enemies,” he declared as Lucius again let go of his hair. “You don’t have any say in the matter. If you try to argue, I’ll kill you.”  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Well, _fine_ , if you want to be stubborn about it, then I suppose we’re – OW! Galloping Gargoyles, what was that?”  
  
A trail of blood floated from the wound in my shoulder where Lucius had just cut me. It landed in the cauldron with a sizzling sound. Lucius fell to his knees, leaning back so that his blond locks were completely submerged in the potion. He screamed as the air around it filled with bright, sparkling light – reminiscent of some of Dumbledore’s gaudier robes.  
  
Suddenly, plumes of white smoke floated outwards and Lucius slumped to the side, groaning. His missing hand was still bleeding and, looking closer, I noticed that I could see some bone jutting out at the tip. Worse yet, his hair was soaked and clumpy, bits of bone and flesh weaved into it by the potion – completely ruined. I considered pitying him but then thought better of it.  
  
Amid the appropriately dramatic smoke, a figure rose. He looked intimidating and quite pureblood – tall and aristocratic. Further, he appeared hypnotically inhuman and serpentine, with no nose and red eyes. He looked like…me.  
  
There was no doubt, now. Lord Voldemort had returned…even though he… _I_ was already here. I would have to think on this later. “I suppose you truly are the Dark Lord.”  
  
“Of course,” he said.  
  
“So, your plan is…?”  
  
“Kill Dumbledore, take over Britain, figure out the rest later,” he said easily. “Would you like to join me?”  
  
“I thought you said we were enemies!” I said.  
  
He shrugged. “Yes, well, that was just for the ritual.”  
  
“Granted, I’d have done the same,” I admitted. “But are you certain that deciding we aren’t enemies won’t nullify the ritual? It might cause your body to fall apart, which seems like a waste after all the work Lucius has done.”  
  
“I don’t… _think_ that would happen,” Voldemort said slowly.  
  
“Are you sure? Did you actually research this, or did you find a summary in a book and decide it sounded like a good idea?”  
  
Voldemort didn’t respond. I sighed. It was as if I…I mean _he_ never learns.  
  
He watched me keenly, remarking, “You know, I’ve realized something about you. You’re exactly as I was at your age: cunning, curious, distant from your peers, capable of spells far beyond your classmates. Exactly the same.”  
  
I should have known he would catch on. He’s me, after all, and I’m not an idiot Gryffindor, head-in-the-clouds Ravenclaw or average Hufflepuff. No, I’m far smarter than that.  
  
“I know your secret, Potter” – he smirked – “You are like me. You’re…a _genius_.”  
  
“Finally, someone notices!” I exclaimed. “Honestly, I get O’s in every subject without even trying, except for potions – but that’s because Snape is blatantly a Death Eater.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Severus, my most loyal servant,” he murmured. “On that topic, I suppose it’s time that my wayward followers know of my return.”  
  
He bent down, pulling something from Lucius’s robe pocket. It was my old yew wand, which I’d had such fun with. I cast my first Avada Kedavra with that wand, you know. I grinned at the memories.  
  
My other self seemed similarly pleased as he pressed the wand against Lucius’s Dark Mark, jostling his injury at the same time. A whispered spell sent another pained shudder through the blond.  
  
Voldemort stood, head tilted arrogantly and eyes cold.  
  
“So, how long do you think they’ll be?” I asked.  
  
Voldemort shrugged, “Ten minutes? They’ve never been particularly punctual, and I just don’t think they fear me as much as they will in about fifteen minutes.”  
  
I nodded, wandering over to Lucius, who had managed to pull himself into a sitting position. He stared blankly at his stump. His voice shook. “My hand, my lord?”  
  
Voldemort blinked. “Oh, right.”  
  
With a negligent wave of our wand, Voldemort conjured a silver hand for the injured man. Another wave chopped off his hair, leaving him completely bald and vanishing his greatest accomplishment.  
  
“Never let it be said that I am not a generous master,” Voldemort declared pompously.  
  
I absentmindedly healed my own wound.  
  
It was about that time that the Death Eaters apparated in, sometimes coming in pairs. Each received a cold welcome. The last to come was over three minutes later than all the others. He arrived panting.  
  
“You’re late,” Voldemort said, eyes narrowed.  
  
“Dumbledore was being difficult,” a familiar voice drawled. “Apparently the Potter boy has gone missing. Again.”  
  
Voldemort smiled in a manner that would have been more reassuring if he’d had lips. “Ah, Severus! I didn’t recognize you with your mask on.”  
  
He turned towards the rest of the group. “It seems that my _devoted_ subjects have all arrived. I cannot help wondering why none of you thought to search for your master during his long absence. Instead, you turned your backs upon me and spurned all that I taught you. Only Severus remained loyal.”  
  
Voldemort continued on for some time – ranting, crucioing, begrudgingly granting forgiveness…the usual.  
  
“What’s the Potter boy doing here, then?” one of them finally asked.  
  
He received a bout of the Cruciatius, just for the principle of the thing, before Voldemort explained. “We were just about to duel to the death.”  
  
I blinked. “Weren’t you trying to recruit me?”  
  
“Yes, but you said no, so now I’m going to kill you. Dear Merlin, Potter, keep up.”  
  
“I’m not fighting you,” I said. I didn’t particularly want to kill myself, and he was probably protected by the Horcruxes, anyway. So I couldn’t even kill him properly. Besides, I just put in so much effort to resurrect him. I _bled._  
  
Voldemort scowled, and a flick of his hand sent the Death Eaters hurrying to circle us and block my escape. “You don’t get a choice in this.”

“Fine,” I grunted. I would play along, for the moment.  
  
We bowed, raised our wands, and began. “Avada Kedavra!”  
  
The following fight can best be described as very green. Avada Kedavras flew wildly through the air. His were weaker than mine as he was still cheerful after gaining a new body while I was carrying a grudge over his sabotaging my time in the tournament.

We effortlessly dodged each other’s spells. But they found targets easily enough.  
  
One by one, Death Eaters fell. A few realized what was going on. Lucius, for instance, was using Crabbe as a human shield. Yet their numbers kept thinning.  
  
Voldemort’s spells took out more of his people than mine did, which was surprising because I was actually aiming.  
  
Eventually, I maneuvered myself close to a wide gap in the ring of my former and apparently current followers. With one last Avada Kedavra in Voldemort’s direction, I sprinted away, headed towards the graveyard’s gates.  
  
However, I took a small detour to grab the Cup because it was _mine_. As I snatched its handle, something tugged at my navel and the world began to spin, eventually solidifying into the familiar grounds of Hogwarts.  
  
Greeted by the surprised faces of my teachers and classmates, I knew immediately that I had to tell them. After all, I knew something incredibly important, something that mattered. I could not allow them to wallow in ignorance for a moment longer.  
  
I held my trophy aloft and shouted, “I declare victory!”

* * *

“But, if you didn’t manufacture the whole thing, then why was Snape there?” I asked.  
  
Dumbledore frowned, studying the whirring gadgets on his desk for a moment before coming to a decision. “Professor Snape has been a loyal spy for the Light over a great many years, Harry.”  
  
That was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. Still, I suppose even Dumbledore can occasionally overlook the obvious. Or perhaps he was simply trying to convince _me_ of Severus’s loyalty – playing the long game, as always.  
  
He gave me a stern look. “I hope you’re wise enough to not endanger him by telling anyone.”  
  
“No one would believe me, anyway,” I said. “And, frankly, I don’t believe you. What are the chances that I was just coincidentally kidnapped before my victory was properly recognized? It was obviously part of the tournament.”  
  
In retrospect, Dumbledore’s involvement explained everything: why the Cup was a portkey, Severus’s presence, the supposed Lord Voldemort’s lapses into idiocy and his very existence.  
  
Dumbledore leaned forward inquisitively. “Harry, what could I possibly gain from faking the return of Voldemort?”

The man was obviously toying with me. Fine, I would play his game.  
  
“You could further your fame and power by giving the people of Britain a great enemy against which they can only unite under one leader: Yourself. Further, you can finally regain the respect you lost when you failed to kill him the first time.”  
  
“I have plenty of power already,” Dumbledore said.  
  
I scowled. “Which just makes it all the more despicable.”  
  
He paused, before speaking rather slowly. “I assure you, I have no interest in furthering my political power. Even if that weren’t the case, I dare say this would not be the best plan. Why reveal him in such a roundabout manner? It would be better to revive him in front of a large audience, not a lone boy.”  
  
He made a reasonable point. “There’s still the possibility of –“  
  
“Mr. Potter, I have already — at your insistence — checked you for hallucinogens and confunding spells. Whatever you saw, I’ve no doubt it was real.”  
  
Yet it was that possibility which I was so desperate to dismiss. After all, if Voldemort was cavorting about the English countryside with whatever followers had survived our duel, then who was I?  
  
Worse yet, he seemed to have added me to the list of those who have wronged him, and I have never been a merciful man.  
  
“…This might be a problem,” I concluded.  
  
Dumbledore chuckled. “I find that very likely.”

* * *

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger did not wish to go to the library. She trailed behind Ron and me, glancing back towards the Great Hall. Her hair was even more frazzled than usual as she anxiously tugged at it. “The service starts in ten minutes. If we hurry, we can still make it in time.”  
  
“I’m not going to the stupid Slytherin memorial service,” I said.  
  
She scowled. “It’s not stupid, and you _really_ should go and pay your respects.”  
  
“You assume that I respect any of the Slytherin’s parents…Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I’ve never met most of them. Or any of them.”  
  
It’s so difficult to keep track of these things.  
  
“Well, yes, but” – Hermione’s voice dropped to a whisper – “it is your fault, after all, so you really ought to at least try to be graceful about it.”  
  
Ron wrinkled his nose, asking, “Whaddaya mean? Didn’t they all die of dragon pox?”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, and the epidemic just _happened_ to have only affected Pureblood Slytherins.”  
  
“Well, to be fair, they don’t talk to anyone else,” I said.  
  
“And dragon pox is very rarely deadly. Besides, we both heard your story. You really think it’s a coincidence that several Death Eaters were killed by Voldemort, and a myriad of Slytherins die the same day?”  
  
She made a good point, but admitting that would mean losing the argument. So I immediately discarded the notion.  
  
“Are you implying that all Slytherins are Death Eaters? I expect this sort of bigotry from Ron, but I thought you were better than that.” I shook my head with exaggerated sadness.  
  
She huffed. “Even if it wasn’t your fault, you still shouldn’t be so rude. Nearly everyone’s going, and so should we.”  
  
“No one’s stopping you. It’s not like we need to be together all the time.” Although we usually were anyway.  
  
“I…” – Hermione paused for a moment, realizing that I hadn’t been insulting her this time – “Well, fine then. Come on, Ron.”  
  
“But I don’t want to go see all the dead Slytherins,” Ron whined.  
  
She grabbed his arm, dragging him along. Ron didn’t stand a chance against Hermione in a fight (she’s far too ruthless) but he could have at least tried. It would have been funny.  
  
I continued towards the library and the knowledge held within its looming stacks. It was time to do what I should have done fifty years ago…or any time afterward:  
  
Research Horcruxes.

* * *

Fortunately, Madame Pince was one of Gilderoy Lockhart’s many admirers. Though my pass to the Restricted Section was nearly two years old, my passionate insistence that this was quite likely Lockhart’s final wish (outside of not being eaten by an Acromantula) spurred her to allow me access. As an additional bribe, I gave her a signed copy of _Sporting with Spiders._  
  
I did not browse the stacks for long before finding the book in which I had originally found out about Horcruxes: _Secrets of the Darkest Arts._  
  
I’d only ever seen it once, reading several chapters before reaching the Egyptian section. I’d just begun reading about Horcruxes and automatically memorized the ritual, when the librarian started grumbling about curfew. Unwilling to arouse suspicion, I left the tome in the library.  
  
The next day, I asked some of the professors a few innocuous questions. Before I could return to the book, my access to the Restricted Section had been revoked because I was “meddling in Dark Magic” or something stupid like that. That’s how I knew that I was on the right track.  
  
Now that I had finally rediscovered the book, what I found was quite peculiar.  
  
After the usual warning about insanity, a clear ploy to ward off cowards, there were a few stories of Horcrux users:  
  
First, there was my boyhood hero Harpo the Foul – hatcher of basilisks and spell weaver – whose Horcrux was eviscerated when some plucky adventurer tricked his favorite basilisk into biting it. Grimhilda the Widow’s Horcrux, her husband’s skull, was destroyed during a freak fiendfyre accident. No one’s entirely sure what happened to Ignis the Handsome’s Horcrux, but no one’s seen him lately, so it was presumably destroyed. The last story, however, was most intriguing:  
  
That of a living Horcrux.  
  
Jibade the Black, a distant cousin to the royal family, aspired to be Pharaoh. Recognizing the dangers of such a quest, however, he did what all reasonable wizards do and created a Horcrux. But Jibade was clever. He wanted a Horcrux that could defend itself, one with an innate will to survive and a hatred of all living things. He chose his cat.  
  
Unfortunately for Jibade the Black, the cat came to believe that he, too, was Jibade. In the dark of night, the wizard was murdered by that which should have ensured his survival and reduced to an angry spirit. Shortly afterward, Jibade the Cat was assassinated by his political enemies.  
  
I closed the book, careful to avoid its teeth. This was…unexpected, and it opened all sorts of possibilities in my mind.  
  
It was true that I had been planning to make a Horcrux that night, and I had committed more than enough murders to fracture my soul. Was it possible that – with my body destroyed by something that was undoubtedly the Potters’ fault – my damaged soul had flown in different directions? One part had gone off to be pathetic in Albania, while the better part had settled inside young Harry Potter.  
  
Essentially, I was the vengeful cat. Thankfully, I was also the political enemy…Well, along with Dumbledore, the Weasleys, most of the Ministry of Magic –  
  
“Quite a book you’ve got there, Potter,” Moody said. Right, yes, him too.  
  
I chuckled nervously. “It fell off the shelf, but I’m afraid to touch it because it’s very Dark.”  
  
Moody smiled in a deeply disturbing manner, as he always does. “That’s a pity. For a moment there, you almost had my respect.”  
  
I stood from my chair. “What?”  
  
“Petrificus Totalus.”  
  
I ducked under the table, scrambling on my hands and knees away from my deranged professor.  
  
“Not bad, Potter. Practicing constant vigilance, are you? Won’t help much.”  
  
“Dumbledore sent you; didn’t he?” I spat.  
  
It all made sense. With the return of Lord Voldemort, Dumbledore had realized the same thing I had: I was Voldemort’s Horcrux. He had arrogantly believed that he could control young “Harry Potter,” but both of us? No, we were too dangerous. So he decided to kill me, then take out my lesser self.  
  
Moody threw a spell at the table I’d hidden under, collapsing it. “Wrong side, kid.”  
  
I rolled to my feet and cast a Protego. “Hah! Like Mad-Eye Moody would ever be a Death Eater. Stop protecting your master.”  
  
Moody laughed, mismatched eyes never leaving my face. Then, with the dramatic timing that just doesn’t exist in the Muggle World, his skin began to ripple. His peg-leg clattered to the floor, and he pocketed the fake eye. With the face of a different man, he smirked.  
  
My eyes widened. “Of course, I knew it all along. The whole time, you were actually – Wait who are you?”  
  
“Barty Crouch, Jr.” – at my blank look, he added – “A Death Eater.”  
  
“Right, that makes sense. In fact, everything makes sense now. You were the one who was sabotaging me in the tournament all along.”  
  
He frowned. “Actually – “  
  
“Voldemort already admitted it.”  
  
“Guess I wasn’t in on the plan,” the Death Eater muttered.  
  
I snorted. “Like Voldemort would share any of his plans with a mere pawn.”  
  
The man who had recently stopped being Moody growled, throwing a spell that dispersed against my shield. “I am not a pawn! I am one of his best Death Eaters, and I am his most loyal servant no matter what he says about Snape or Sirius Bla – “  
  
He stopped shouting, then, because he was too busy being on fire. I wandered towards his twitching, flaming body and stole his wand. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d practiced constant vigilance.”  
  
I returned _Secrets of the Darkest Arts_ to its shelf, and wandered back to the main library. Madame Pince was slumped across her desk. Apparently she was as practiced at sleeping through Death Eater attacks as I was. I nonchalantly headed towards the entrance. It was about that time that Dumbledore and Severus showed up because _of course_ it was.  
  
I put on my best innocent expression. “Oh, Professors, I’m so glad you’re here. Moody’s a Death Eater and tried to kill me, but, thankfully, I killed him first…with love.”

* * *

Gazing out of the train’s window, I smirked. This year had turned out alright after all. I won the Triwizard Tournament, I won against Voldemort, I won the House Cup –  
  
“And _I_ won your friendship,” Ginevra said.  
  
I glanced away from the window, now frowning at the seat where Ginevra and Luna Lovegood sat. The redhead smiled apologetically, murmuring, “You were thinking aloud again.”  
  
My frown lessened. “Any progress on discovering your family’s Dark Magic?”  
  
“Well, not much so far. I’ve been at school, so there haven’t been many chances.”  
  
“That’s never stopped Hermione.”  
  
“Hermione doesn’t do Dark Magic…”Ron said weakly. “Right, ‘Mione?”  
  
The aforementioned girl didn’t respond, too caught up with her latest information-gathering mission. I cast an overpowered lumos to draw her attention (the underage restrictions didn’t take effect until we left the train). “So, which Dark Lord are you studying, now?”  
  
Hermione said flatly, “You.”  
  
“What?” She’d finally figured it out. I should have known she would. Why had I not better prepared for this day?  
  
“She means Lord Voldemort,” Luna said.  
  
 _“What?”_ Two of them. Could I obliviate them both subtly enough to avoid suspicion? No, no, I was terrible at obliviations. That was why I usually just murdered witnesses. It was easier.  
  
Luna pursed her lips. “That is what the cover says, unless the wrackspurts are playing tricks again.”  
  
The blonde riffled around in her bag, drawing out a pair of winged glasses.  
  
“No, Luna, no _unidentified_ and possibly _nonexistent_ creatures are muddying your senses. I’m reading about Lord Voldemort.”  
  
I spoke. “But you said –“  
  
“I was teasing, Harry. Although you’re in here, too, and I am reading about you.”  
  
“Why?” I asked, still feeling justifiably suspicious.  
  
She sighed. “You’ve told us that Voldemort is alive, so I’m studying the way he died the first time. Hopefully, we can make it happen again.”  
  
Ginevra asked, “But shouldn’t the adults be handling this?”  
  
“I used to think so, too, but we always end up doing these things anyway. I figure we’re better off being proactive.”  
  
Ginevra’s brow twisted, puzzled. “Don’t you think that teachers and other adults are always right?”  
  
Hermione said, “Well, I did back in first year, but then I was attacked by a mountain troll. It’s all been a bit shaky from there.”  
  
Ginevra paled, wailing “Oh, I got my interpretation of you _all_ wrong!”  
  
Luna rested a comforting hand on her shoulder, though her bespectacled gaze never left a spot slightly above Hermione’s head.  
  
“So, have you figured out how to beat him, then? Voldemort, I mean,” Ron asked.  
  
Hermione shook her head. “It’s not that simple. I’ve noticed something odd, though, about the night that he was vanquished.”  
  
“By me,” I added.  
  
“Yes, well it certainly wasn’t the wrackspurts,” she snapped.  
  
Luna said, “You don’t know that for sure. You’re just assuming.”  
  
“She does that a lot,” I said.  
  
Ginevra sniffled. “At least I got that part right.”  
  
Hermione said, “As I was _saying_. Why would Voldemort go alone to attack the Potters? Usually, he would send his followers to do that sort of thing, while he only went on raids in public places – like Diagon Alley.”  
  
“He’s crazy. Why did he do anything?” Ron said.  
  
“Yes, of course he was crazy, but he’s a very specific sort of crazy. This doesn’t fit it. He likes to grandstand, to look impressive. He never seems to hurt people without an audience. So why didn’t he just send Bellatrix Lestrange or Lucius Malfoy?”  
  
“The Malfoys are idiots,” I said, “Lucius would have just mucked it up.”  
  
She set down her book, too agitated to keep her hands still. “Mucked what up? What was the plan? Why the Potters?”  
  
“The Prophecy,” I muttered.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
I said, “There was a prophecy, about the Potter child – me – and Lord Voldemort.”  
  
“How’d you find out about that?” Ginevra asked.  
  
“Snape told me.” Technically, that was true.  
  
“What did it say?” Ron asked.  
  
“I don’t know,” I said, for quite possibly the first time in my life.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Hermione asked.  
  
“Because I don’t know what it says. Honestly, I expect this sort of thing from Ron, not you.”  
  
Hermione huffed. “Well, why don’t you find out, then? It’s right there in the Department of Mysteries.”  
  
Of course Hermione would know that. No surprise, considering her previous occupation.  
  
“Oh. Well, I suppose we’ll be taking a trip to the Ministry” — I stood to leave — “Have a good summer, and I’ll call upon you when the time is right.”  
  
“Harry,” Ginevra said.  
  
“What is it now?” I snapped.  
  
“You do realize that we’re not at the station yet, right?”  
  
“…I am perfectly aware of that at this moment, yes.”  
  
Luna turned her head towards me, squinting behind the colorful glass. “It’s probably the wrackspurts. Does anyone have a butterfly net?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Pettigrew eaten by a grim, I wondered how Voldemort would reach his canon position. Lost, I turned to my brother, asking him, “What would Voldemort do without Pettigrew to revive him?”
> 
> He responded, “What would Harry do? Mooch off the Malfoys.”
> 
> And so it was.


	10. Harry Potter vs. The Department of Mysteries

Hermione Granger woke to a rapping sound. She yawned, grumbling softly as she padded across her bedroom and opened her window. A barn owl fluttered inside and perched on her night table, a letter clutched in its talons.  
  
Hermione waited a moment by the window, enjoying the breeze against her face, before following the creature. She murmured, “I don’t suppose this could have waited for morning?”  
  
The owl chittered angrily, and she smiled as she retrieved the letter. “I guess not.”  
  
She felt carefully for the flaps in the darkness, opening it slowly but without the slightest tearing – almost as if she were a spy sneaking a peek at someone else’s mail. She unfolded the letter, then frowned. “Blank?”  
  
Hermione turned to the owl. “You traveled all this way just to give a blank letter? Well, I suppose it might not have been that far. Then again, I was in Scotland this morning and traveling for hours. Were you following me all that time, or did you just know that I would be here when you landed? I mean, really, how _do_ owls track people?”  
  
“Don’t overthink it. That’s the reason why we had to switch to owls in the first place.”  
  
Hermione jumped, eye darting wildly around the room before settling on where I leaned against her windowsill.  
  
“Harry! I didn’t see you there.”  
  
I frowned. “Then who were you talking to?”  
  
I think she raised an eyebrow, though it was difficult to be certain in the dark. “The owl, of course.”  
  
“That’s crazy,” I said.  
  
Hermione raised a hand, pointer finger extended and quite ready to argue with me. She lowered it, however, upon realizing that she could never win. “Speaking of crazy, what are you doing here?”  
  
“I figured we should break into the Department of Mysteries.”  
  
“Tonight?” she squeaked.  
  
“The guard should be light, and there won’t be many witnesses. It’s as good a time as any.”  
  
“So, when you said, ‘I’ll get you when the time is right,’ you meant tonight?”

I’m quite certain she raised an eyebrow that time.  
  
I said, “Well, I wasn’t originally planning on it, but apparently the Dursleys moved. I realized that I didn’t have any place to sleep, so I decided not to. I’m thinking we’ll head out now, get into the Ministry before dawn, and then go grab breakfast.”  
  
“Your family abandoned you?!” Trust Hermione to latch on to the least important part of my statement.  
  
“They’ll probably be back in a few weeks, so obliviated that they occasionally forget how to breathe.”  
  
She clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. I legitimately have no idea why anyone thinks she cares about things. Her acting is atrocious. “That’s awful. Who would do that?”  
  
“I dunno. Dumbledore? It’s usually Dumbledore. I could find them first, I suppose, if I really wanted to, but I just don’t like them that much. Now, about going to the Ministry…”  
  
“Right, yes,” she mumbled. “How did you get here, anyway? I didn’t even know you had my address.”  
  
“I don’t. I followed the owl.”  
  
Hermione stood there for a moment, blinking. “You what?”  
  
“It’s really simple, actually. You just write someone a letter, give it to an owl, and then fly behind them. The owl doesn’t care, and they’re more reliable than most tracking charms.”  
  
“Oh. Is there a way to stop owls from finding you, then?”  
  
I shrugged. “I suppose, but I don’t know why anyone would. You wouldn’t get your letters.”  
  
“But, if you were a convicted felon, then people could find you this way.”  
  
“Theoretically.”  
  
“Like, Sirius Black,” she said, looking a bit desperate, “Surely he’s stopped owls from following him.”  
  
“I don’t know why he would. He probably wants his letters, and I doubt he has a permanent address. That’s just begging to be caught.”  
  
Hermione sighed heavily. “Are we getting Ron, then?”  
  
“Oh, I’ve already got him. He’s under the cloak, outside your window.”  
  
I paused for a moment, considering the situation. “He should probably take it off while we get on the broom, though. If you misjudged the distance and fell two stories, we’d probably have to delay our mission.”  
  
She twisted her lips thoughtfully. “ _The_ broom? As in, only one?”  
  
“Of course. How else would we stay under the cloak? Besides, you and I aren’t any good at flying, so it seems like the safest option.”

* * *

“Galloping Gargoyles, Ron, keep it steady!” I shouted.  
  
“I can’t,” Ron whined. “There’s too much weight on it. I don’t think it’s supposed to hold more than one person.”  
  
“If we die, it’s entirely your fault,” I informed him.  
  
Hermione poked me in the ribs, saying firmly, “We are not going to die.”  
  
I snorted. “Of course not. But, if we did, it would be Ron’s fault.”  
  
“Why did we have to fly all the way to London, anyway?” Ron asked.  
  
I rolled my eyes, though the effect was entirely lost since I was clinging to Ron’s back and Hermione had her face buried in mine. “Do _you_ have any better ideas?”  
  
“Yeah, sure I do. We could’ve taken the Knight Bus, or flooed, or talked Bill into apparating us. He’s visiting, and he wouldn’t have snitched –“  
  
“Enough with your whining, Ron. Don’t make me regret not taking Ginevra in your place. It’s not like she didn’t offer.”  
  
“Why didn’t you take her, then?” Hermione asked.  
  
“She annoys me. Besides, she’s willing to cover for Ron and pretend to be him, if necessary. As slowly as this is going, I suspect it will be.”  
  
Hermione’s arms suddenly tensed around me. “Oh, I am going to be in so much trouble.”  
  
“What have you done this time?” I asked.  
  
“Nothing,” she snapped. “Well, just this. But my parents don’t know that I’m out, and they’re bound to be upset.”  
  
“Just tell them you had a surprise sleepover with Ron and me.”  
  
She giggled, the motion causing an uncomfortable tickling sensations by my shoulder blades. “You want me to tell my parents that I snuck out of the house to stay the night with two teenage boys? I think I’d be better off telling them we were stealing a prophecy to defeat Lord Voldemort. At least then they’ll be too confused to be angry.”  
  
“I think that’s London,” Ron interrupted, steering us downward.

* * *

After three hours of wandering the city and poking our heads into telephone booths, we found the entrance to the Ministry of Magic.  
  
We gathered under the invisibility cloak before stepping inside the red box. Nothing happened for several seconds.  
  
“Did we pick the wrong one again?” Hermione whispered.  
  
I shook my head. “No, this has got to be it. One of us will have to get out and dial the number.”  
  
Ron immediately shifted the cloak so that he could scramble to the phone. At our startled faces, he grinned. “I figure it’s a lot like being bait.”  
  
He dialed 62442. A woman’s tinny voice said, “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Who is this?”  
  
Ron returned to his usual oafish demeanor. “Erm…”  
  
“Percy Weasley,” I shouted.  
  
“What?” he squeaked.  
  
“No one will notice the difference,” I assured him.  
  
Hermione said, “I hardly think –“  
  
“What is your business here today, Mr. Weasley?” the voice asked.  
  
Ron snorted. “Probably brownnosing.”  
  
“Thank you. Please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.”  
  
He reached down, grabbed a chunky, silver badge from the chute, and burst into laughter.  
  
“What is it?” Hermione asked.  
  
Ron just shook his head, which had turned bright red. With trembling hands, he affixed the badge to his robes.  
  
“Ron, I demand that you tell me what is so funny,” I said.  
  
The redhead, still grinning, turned so that the badge faced us, its blocky letters easily legible. It read: _Percival Weasley._ _Meeting the Minister._

Not entirely certain what was funny about that, I stayed silent. It was probably a Weasley thing.  
  
The voice continued as we shuddered to a stop, “Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.”  
  
Ron nervously glanced around the Ministry’s hall. He muttered, “Uh, should I go to the security desk or…”  
  
I replied, “That’s what the voice said.”  
  
“But is it a good idea to just walk up to the guard with my badge saying I’m Percy?”  
  
“Ron, trust me, no one will notice.”  
  
His eyes darted around nervously. “But –“  
  
“I’m sorry; I thought you were a Gryffindor. I guess the Hat just put you there because of your family.”  
  
Ron immediately walked towards the security desk, head held very high. We scurried after him.  
  
“That was a really low blow, Harry,” Hermione hissed.  
  
“I know. It was brilliant.” I smirked at my own cleverness.  
  
“There’s no way the guard will actually think he’s his brother.”  
  
I chuckled, raising a hand towards the guard. “Confundus.”  
  
The guard looked up suddenly, as if confused about where he was. He squinted at Ron’s badge. “Percy?”  
  
“Yes,” Ron said stiffly. “Of course.”  
  
“Kind of early for you to be here, isn’t it?”  
  
“Well, you know me” – Ron let out a nervous chuckle – “I believe in punctuality. It’s really important to me.”  
  
“Right, yes. I remember that,” the guard said. “Go on, then.”  
  
Ron nodded, stomping away with us at his heels. He asked, “What just happened?”  
  
“You witnessed me being right,” I told him.  
  
“Harry confunded the guard” – Hermione paused for a moment – “Actually, how did you do that? We aren’t supposed to do magic over the summer.”  
  
“They can only catch you if you use a wand.”  
  
“You can do wandless magic?” Ron asked.  
  
I said, “I can do lots of things. I’m Harry Potter.”  
  
“Of course you are,” Hermione grumbled. “The Department of Mysteries is downstairs.”  
  
I beamed, slapping her on the back. “I knew you would eventually admit to working there.”  
  
“I’m not! There’s a map right there.” The cloak rustled as she flung her arm up to point.  
  
“Sure it is, Hermione.”  
  
“It’s right there. Just look at it. Ron, can you tell him?”  
  
Ron frowned. “I don’t see it anywhere.”  
  
“I’m pointing right at it,” she cried.  
  
“You’re invisible,” he said.  
  
Hermione blinked, earlier frustration fallen off her face. “Oh. Right. I am. We should probably just go downstairs.”

* * *

“…So if we just mark every door that we try,” Hermione explained, “we’ll know where to go when the room spins again.”  
  
“We can’t mark the doors!” I cried, arms flung out so that the invisibility cloak temporarily obscured the walls. “People will know we’ve been here.”  
  
Hermione pouted. “It would be a magical mark, obviously.”  
  
“Like that would make any difference. This is the Department of Mysteries. They solve magical mysteries all the time.”  
  
Ron frowned, mumbling, “Actually, I think they’re named that because –“  
  
“Silence. Hermione, you’re being particularly unhelpful tonight. Do you want us to be caught?”  
  
She pursed her lips in obvious guilt. “Of course not.”  
  
“Are you sure? I know we’re breaking into your workplace –“  
  
“It isn’t!”  
  
“–but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re supposed to be pretending to be my friend, and selling out your friends to your coworkers is not okay.”  
  
“I…” Hermione appeared lost, for once unable to come up with a clever lie. “I’m not even sure where to start in disputing that.”  
  
“It’s not worth it, ‘Mione,” Ron said. “So, uh, what are we supposed to do if we don’t mark the doors, then?”  
  
I flung my invisibility cloak over my shoulders. “Obviously, we open all the doors and never close them.”  
  
“Oh. Alright then,” Ron said, turning the nearest doorknob like the Gryffindor he is.  
  
We split up to open more doors in a shorter time. Behind the first was some sort of planetarium, and the second contained something which resembled Lucius’s hair. The third room held a pillar and curtain. Almost immediately, I decided that I hated it. It had been a while since that had happened, and I was resisting the urge to slam the door shut when Ron spoke.  
  
“It’s kind of weird that they don’t let people see prophecies about them, if you ask me.”  
  
I shrugged, still glaring at the curtain. I could feel a headache forming. “They might let you, actually. I never checked.”  
  
“You mean that we didn’t need to break into the Ministry, at all?” Hermione asked, clearly unhappy about something. Perhaps she’d stumbled onto one of Dumbledore’s secret and no doubt insidious projects.  
  
“I mean that I never checked. The way I see it, asking would do absolutely no good. If we don’t get caught, it doesn’t matter. If it’s _not_ against the rules and we get caught, then we’ll all have a good laugh about it. If it is against the rules, however, then we made the right decision and asking someone would have just put them on guard.”  
  
Hermione frowned. “I still think –“  
  
“Bloody hell, are those brains?” Ron yelped.  
  
“Enough, Ron. We’ll get you one on the way out.” I opened another door, absentmindedly casting a stunner on the creature inside.  
  
“And we’ll grab Harry a heart,” Hermione said.  
  
I furrowed my brow. “Why would I need one of those?”  
  
“…Harry, you just made that joke,” Hermione said, looking distressed. “It hasn’t even been a minute.”  
  
Seeing that I’d lost all interest in responding, the girl sighed and opened another door.

* * *

“What are the chances that the right door would be the very last one we tried?” I said.  
  
Hermione frowned. “Hm. Twelve doors. So, one out of twelve times one out of eleven, so that’s –“  
  
“I wasn’t actually asking. I was just complaining,” I clarified.  
  
Ron took that as his cue. With a tired grin, he said, “Good. I can’t wait to be out of here.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’ve got to whine about,” I said. “I’m the one who nearly drowned.”  
  
His Weasley face reddened. “You dragged me under, too.”  
  
“Only because you grabbed me.”  
  
“I was trying to save you!”  
  
“Well clearly you weren’t doing a very good job of it.”  
  
Hermione snapped, “Stop fighting. We need to get the prophecy before the morning rush comes in and my parents realize that I snuck out.”  
  
“Fine,” I muttered.  
  
We stepped through the doorway, and looked up. And up. And over. And over some more at the seemingly endless rows of shelves holding silvery orbs.  
  
“Bloody hell,” Ron said.  
  
“How are we supposed to find anything in this?” Hermione fretted. “I don’t see a directory anywhere.”  
  
“It might be alphabetical,” Ron said.  
  
“Possibly, but by what? Would it be under Trelawney? Or Potter? Or maybe it landed under Voldemort’s name, and I don’t even know what that is…”  
  
“Riddle,” I said.  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“I killed him.”  
  
“That – okay, fine, that still doesn’t change the fact that there are thousands of orbs and several possible organizational structures…”  
  
Ron laid a hand on her shoulder, laughing. “Hermione.”  
  
“Y-yeah?” she asked, sounding somewhat dazed.  
  
“Calm down. We’ll find it,” Ron said. “…Probably.”  
  
“Right,” she mumbled, flushing with embarrassment at her panic.  
  
I declared, “I’m already far ahead of you both.”  
  
I raised a hand towards the looming rack of prophecies and said, “Accio the prophecy about Harry Potter.”  
  
All was silent for a moment. Then there was a sudden crash and a guttural voice. Then another and another. Then a thousand extra crashes and voices joined them as an entire shelf hit the floor. At that point, I spotted my summoned orb flying _through_ the shelf nearest us just as the shelf to its left fell atop it.  
  
I grabbed Hermione’s arm, she grabbed Ron, and we all ran for it – my prophecy following close behind.  
  
“Why did you do that?” Hermione cried.  
  
“We didn’t have time to figure out how they were organized,” I said, pulling her and Ron into the hallway outside of the department.  
  
“But you could have used a point-me spell or something.”  
  
“I’m not sure if I can do that wandlessly,” I said. Also, I hadn’t thought of it, but that didn’t seem worthy of mention.  
  
Hermione gripped my hand painfully, fingernails digging into my skin as we waited in the elevator. “You didn’t even check! You just destroyed the entire roomful of prophecies.”  
  
“It was wicked,” Ron whispered.  
  
“Thank you,” I said. We stepped from the elevator, confunding the night guard in passing.  
  
“No, don’t you dare encourage him, Ron,” Hermione said. “This is not alright. We broke several laws tonight and destroyed irreplaceable objects, and we are going to be in _so_ much trouble.”  
  
“Not if you don’t tell your boss,” I said.  
  
She growled low in her throat. “I don’t have a boss.”  
  
“Then we’ll be fine,” I announced, pulling the broom from my pocket and unshrinking it.

* * *

“…but, due to good fortune and quick-thinking, we were able to escape with both the prophecy and no property damage,” Hermione finished, breathing a bit heavily to make up for the last several minutes of talking.  
  
Her parents exchanged a glance. With a small nod at her husband, Mrs. Granger turned to Hermione. “Sweetie, if you have a boyfriend, you know you can tell us, right? We won’t be upset.”  
  
Mr. Granger coughed.  
  
“Well, maybe a little,” she amended.  
  
Hermione blushed, sputtering, “I…I – I do not have a boyfriend. Harry doesn’t even understand what being a girl means, and Ron is…not my boyfriend. I was telling the truth, really. These things happen in the Wizarding World.”  
  
“Is this what you do at school every year?” Mr. Granger asked, scowling.  
  
“Well, not _all_ the time,” Hermione muttered. “Usually we study.”  
  
Ron said, “Well, _you_ do.”  
  
She elbowed him in the ribs. “But something like this happens every couple of months.”  
  
“It’s slightly less often for the other houses,” I said.  
  
Hermione asked, “How do you even know that?”  
  
“Ginevra talks to them. Merlin knows why.” Also, I used to be a Slytherin, which is more about ancient secrets and politics.  
  
“So all that tripe about a prophecy was true?” Mr. Granger asked.  
  
“Yes,” Hermione said. “I wouldn’t have said it if it was a lie.”  
  
I was completely certain that was a lie.  
  
“And you believe whatever that crystal ball says?” he continued, gesturing towards the misty orb in my hands.  
  
“Divination is a perfectly respectable subject,” I declared.  
  
Hermione said, “We have differing opinions on that. What matters is that Voldemort thinks that the crystal ball is right, and it may possess information that will help us against him.”  
  
Mr. Granger nodded sharply. “Has it, then?”  
  
Hermione blinked. “What?”  
  
“Given good information.”  
  
“What does it say, hon?” Mrs. Granger prodded.  
  
“Um…we haven’t exactly heard it yet,” Hermione said. “The wind was loud, and it was dark out, and Harry kept shouting that he was going to drop it.”  
  
“Ron needed to be prepared so that he could catch it.”  
  
Ron turned red, presumably with pride this time.  
  
“We can listen to it now, I suppose,” Hermione mumbled. She glanced from her parents to Ron and me, then back again.  
  
I said, “That was a cue for you two to leave.”  
  
“No it wasn’t!” Hermione cried.  
  
“Really? Because I was pretty sure this time.”  
  
“I think you were right,” Ron said.  
  
“Thank you Ron.”  
  
“Just play it, please?” – after a moment, she repeated testily – “ _Please?_ ”  
  
“You never told me how to do it,” I said.  
  
“Fine. Tap it –“  
  
“Of course you would know how because you’re a secret –“  
  
She raised a hand to silence me, apparently not wanting her parents to know that their lives were a carefully constructed lie to support a deeply undercover Ministry worker. “Tap it with your wand.”  
  
“Would that count as doing magic over the summer?” Ron asked.  
  
“I’m not sure,” Hermione said.  
  
“Ron, since you brought up such an important point, I award you the honor of playing the prophecy.”  
  
“I’m not that dumb, mate.”  
  
“I don’t carry my wand over the summer. So either you do it, or all of our deaths are your fault.”  
  
“Your deaths?” Mrs. Granger asked weakly.  
  
“Harry has a dark sense of humor,” Hermione said.  
  
“Actually, I never joke. I mean everything I say,” I said.  
  
Ron paled. “You what?”  
  
“Kidding! I was kidding.” I wasn’t kidding.  
  
Ron shakily tapped the orb with his wand, and it split into two halves, a wispy Sybil Trelawney peering at us from between them. She spoke in a deep, gravelly voice.  
  
“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.”  
  
I nodded. I knew that part.  
  
“... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will be his own undoing ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ...”  
  
“That’s great!” Ron said.  
  
“What do you mean?” Mr. Granger asked, frowning.  
  
“It says that You-Know-Who gets rid of himself. And Hermione thought we had to do it, too!”  
  
Mrs. Granger said, “Um, sweetie…”  
  
At the same moment, Hermione said, “Ron, that isn’t actually what it…”  
  
The two shared a look, and, with a tip of the elder’s head, Hermione continued, “That’s not what it says. It says that ‘he shall be his own undoing.’ It never says that ‘he’ is Voldemort. It could just be Harry messing his own life up because he was acting like Harry. Or it might mean that Voldemort was his own undoing because he marked Harry as his equal, which means that Harry still has to be the one who defeats him.”  
  
I growled in frustration. The prophecy might also consider us the same person (because we _are_ ). In that case, either of us is completely free to kill the other. “What’s the point of a prophecy if it doesn’t tell you exactly what to do?”  
  
“No point, really,” Ron said.  
  
“I think I hate Divination now.”  
  
“I’ve hated it since third year,” Ron said.  
  
“Usually I would say that all school topics have merit if you actually put in effort and try to learn,” Hermione said, “but Divination is just terrible.”  
  
“Like Muggle Studies,” I agreed.  
  
“Harry!” she shouted.  
  
“It’s not bigoted if I’m talking about the class. Right, Mr. Granger?”  
  
The man smiled. “I don’t know enough about the topic to say.”  
  
“See, your Dad agrees with me. Why do you have to be such a terrible daughter, Hermione? Sneaking out of the house, lying, arguing with your poor father?”  
  
Hermione pouted, and Mrs. Granger said, “You’re not a terrible daughter, but we _are_ going to have a talk about this.”  
  
“After my friends leave, right?” Hermione asked, eyes wide and deceptively innocent.  
  
“Alright,” her mother agreed.  
  
Hermione glanced in our direction, with some emotion or another.  
  
“Well, I can tell when I’m not wanted,” I said. “Come on, Ron.”  
  
Ron said, “Uh, I don’t think she really wants us to go.”  
  
“No, she was pretty obvious about it. Besides, Ginevra has probably just finished playing herself and you during breakfast. She’s no doubt exhausted.”  
  
Ron winced. “Right, yeah. Bye, ‘Mione.”  
  
“Bye Ron,” she sighed, staring miserably at her parents. Maybe Ron was right after all. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.

* * *

I was under attack.  
  
“Get off of me!” I cried, shaking my body in the hopes of dislodging the arms wrapped around it. But her grip was too solid.  
  
“Nice to see you, too, Harry,” Hermione said and released me from her hug.  
  
I rubbed at my arms in an attempt to disrupt the continued sensation of touch. Warily, I glanced around Hermione’s bedroom. Her mother had shown a similar tendency towards unwarranted bodily assaults.  
  
“Do you have to do that every time?” I demanded. “It’s only been a week.”  
  
She pinched her lips, head raised haughtily. “I was worried about you, you prat. You didn’t say goodbye, you didn’t take your trunk, and – when I tried to send an owl – it got confused and kept circling back. _Then,_ I sent a letter to Ron and found out that he hadn’t seen you since you left to visit me. Where have you been?”  
  
“In the trunk.”  
  
“…Sorry?”  
  
I opened it, gesturing towards the comfortable apartment within. “It’s magically expanded.”  
  
“You…you’ve been living in a trunk?” she said faintly.  
  
“It seemed like a sound investment, since property values keep rising.”  
  
“How do you _eat_?”  
  
“Dobby.”  
  
The house-elf appeared, only to pop away again at my dismissive gesture.  
  
“So you’re stealing, then,” she said flatly.  
  
“ _Dobby_ is stealing. _I_ am accepting gifts,” I said.  
  
Hermione shook her head and then peered into the compartment. “I just assumed you’d be with Ron. If you’d told me that you really didn’t have any place to go, you could have stayed here.”  
  
I chuckled. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”  
  
“In the guest room, Harry!” Her hair fluffed up like a cat’s coat.  
  
I frowned, glancing outside her bedroom door. “I don’t know if I would like that. Your guest room’s pretty small.”  
  
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been living in a trunk.”  
  
“Which is still bigger than your guest room.”  
  
Hermione began to pace, footfalls heavy on the hardwood floor. My trunk shuddered with every step, and my bookcase rattled within. Suddenly, the girl exclaimed, “Is it smoking?”  
  
“Well, I have to air the potions fumes sometime, or they start to build up.”  
  
I’ve tried to remedy the situation through spells, but that tends to set off some of the more delicate brews. I still hadn’t fixed the hole in the floor from my last attempt at Felix Felicis.  
  
“There is absolutely no way this is safe,” Hermione muttered.  
  
“You’re thinking like a Muggle, Hermione,” I said as I descended once again into my new home.  
  
“I am not!” she said. “Also, there’s nothing wrong with that!”  
  
“Sure there isn’t, Hermione” – I chuckled, waving my hand as the roof latched behind me – “ _Sure_ there isn’t.”

* * *

I hopped out of my trunk, squinting at the unexpected sunlight. I squawked indignantly, “Did you move me?”  
  
Hermione smirked. “No.”  
  
I was clearly at the Burrow, and Ron waved at me from beside her. “You liar! Now, I’ll have to ward the trunk against your meddling.”  
  
“You can’t ward something against being picked up, Harry,” she sighed.  
  
I gestured sharply with my hand, missing my wand terribly. “Really? Have you ever tried? You can’t just assume that everything you read in books is true, you know. Sometimes the authors are scheming. Like you.”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes. I’m sure. Now, Ron has something to tell you. Right, Ron?”  
  
“Uh, right,” he said. “Mate, you really shouldn’t be living in a trunk.”  
  
“Don’t let Hermione bully you,” I said. “Your home is perfectly nice.”  
  
“It’s not a shoebox!” he snapped. “Besides, this isn’t like that. My uncle had one of those trunks, but the charms broke when he and all his things were inside…They had to bury him in it.”  
  
“Do you see, Harry?” Hermione said. “This is very dangerous, and you shouldn’t risk it.”  
  
“Ron’s uncle was probably doing something stupid —"  
  
“Yeah, hanging around in a trunk,” Ron muttered.  
  
“–and messed up the charms. Besides, I spent half my money on this trunk, and it’s non-refundable.”  
  
Hermione twisted her lips, skeptically asking, “Half your money?”  
  
“My thousand galleons from the Triwizard Tournament.”  
  
“That’s kind of a weird way to put it, isn’t it?” Ron asked. “I mean, it’s like you’re not thinking about your parents’ money at all. Weren’t the Potters rich?”  
  
I paused. “It never occurred to me to check. I’ll have to inquire about this.”  
  
I retreated into my trunk to write a letter, Ron and Hermione’s horrified protests following me inside.

* * *

_Dear Dumbledore,_   
  
_I must confess that your scheme to steal my parents’ money was brilliant. Now that I have discovered it, however, I request that you return my inheritance in full. If you do this, quickly and without complaint, I shall return the hostages unharmed._   
  
_Love,_   
  
_Harry Potter_

* * *

Professor Dumbledore smiled benignly down at me, and I fought the urge to cower behind Ron, Hermione, or possibly Ginevra. That smile always seemed to precede a terrible loss during my time as a Dark Lord.  
  
“I wish you had asked, earlier, my boy,” he said shaking his head wearily. “I’m afraid I’d quite forgotten to give you your vault key.”  
  
Ha! Forgotten? Despite the occasional, hopeful rumor of senility, Dumbledore couldn’t _forget_ something if he had a team of Obliviators following him at all times. I twisted my face into some amalgamation of innocence, not allowing it to slip even as Ron’s twitching mouth betrayed his restrained laughter. “Of course, sir. I’m just glad to have it now, really.”  
  
“Good, good. If I may be so bold, how have you been buying your books and school supplies before now?”  
  
“The Dursleys helped me out.” Not willingly, mind you, but – since they lack Ron’s Gryffindor courage – they would never be so foolish as to complain about my thievery.  
  
Dumbledore’s smile grew, and it appeared as if he’d just been hit by a cheering charm. “Yes, of course. I’m glad to hear you’re so close to your family. Love is wonderful, you know.”  
  
“Yes, it burns things. I recall,” I said.  
  
Ron said, “What?”  
  
I frowned. “Don’t make me order Ginevra to silence you again.”  
  
“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore chuckled. “I had meant to ask. Who were the hostages you mentioned?”  
  
“Well, I mostly added that part to speed things along.”  
  
Ron cleared his throat, and I hurriedly added, “Hermione’s idea, naturally. But, in a pinch, I could always use my friends.”  
  
Albus Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “You always can, I dare say. Now, I’m afraid I have to go attend a meeting. Good day to you all.”  
  
To my surprise, he then headed straight for the Weasleys’ house, humming merrily all the way.  
  
Hermione asked, “What sort of meeting could he mean?”  
  
“Some weird group that’s been hanging around all summer,” Ron said, wrinkling his nose.  
  
“The Order of the Phoenix,” Ginevra said.  
  
I scowled, and Hermione’s eyes lit up. She said, “Oh! I read about them. They were a small group that opposed Voldemort during the War. Everybody thought that Dumbledore was a member, but no one could ever prove it. Apparently, they're very skilled in urban combat.”  
  
Ron shrugged. “I guess so. Mostly they just sit around and eat Mum’s sandwiches.”


	11. Harry Potter vs. Dolores Umbridge (Pt. 1)

I was two months into my latest attempt at brewing Felix Felicis when my home fell on its side.  
  
“Gah!” I cried, vanishing the potion from my robes and the floor before it starting eating its way through again. I got up, unlatched the entryway, and crawled onto the floor outside.  
  
“What is the meaning of this?” I said, staggering to my feet.  
  
Hermione didn’t even look up from her book. “Your trunk fell off the shelf.”  
  
I hastily took in my surroundings. Hermione sat primly on a seat, reading this year’s Charms textbook. Meanwhile, Ron, Ginevra, Luna, and Longbottom were playing a particularly volatile game of Exploding Snap. “…We’re on the train.”  
  
“Of course we are,” Ginevra said.  
  
“Why didn’t anyone inform me that we were returning to Hogwarts?” I snapped.  
  
Luna crawled away from the game, peering into my trunk curiously.  
  
Ron said, “We couldn’t get in to tell you. You locked us out.”  
  
“Of course I did. You kept trying to steal me from my bed.” I waved my hands around in frustration.  
  
Hermione flipped a page in her book. “To protect you.”  
  
“And _I_ locked it in order to protect myself from you.” I accioed my wand, sick of gesturing like a Muggle.  
  
“You don’t have a Floo in there. How were we supposed to get you?” Ron said.  
  
“Have you ever heard of knocking?”  
  
Luna looked in my general direction. “Do you mind if I go inside?”  
  
“Yes, go ahead.” I waved my wand dismissively.  
  
Ron gaped. “What? She’s allowed to go inside but we’re not?”  
  
“ _She_ has yet to attempt my kidnapping,” I said.  
  
Ginevra beamed up from her continued game with Longbottom. “I haven’t tried to kidnap you yet, Harry.”  
  
“Yes, I just don’t want you in my home,” I said.  
  
Longbottom opened his mouth, glanced at the wand still in my hand, and shut it again.  
  
“I don’t think I would like living in here very much,” Luna called from my trunk. “It’s not very cozy, and it’s rather cold.”  
  
“Heat disrupts the brewing process.”  
  
I glared at Hermione because this latest incident was almost certainly the result of her vengeance. “…which reminds me. You ruined three months of work.”  
  
She groaned. “You’re not seriously trying to make Felix Felicis again?”  
  
“I’ve figured out the secret to making the most potent batch in existence,” I declared.  
  
Hermione pursed her lips. “You’ll be lucky if you can make it at all. That’s a _very_ advanced potion, Harry. Most Potions Masters can’t even brew it.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“It takes incredible luck for anyone to successfully brew it. I suspect that luck is actually an ingredient. The insane amount of luck necessary for _me_ to do it would therefore add to the quality of the potion. In fact, it may actually be stealing my luck for later use, thus leading to my many failures.”  
  
“Harry,” Hermione said, “that’s stupid and –“  
  
“–just the sort of thing that magic does!” Ginevra cried.  
  
“She’s got you there, ‘Mione,” Ron said.  
  
Longbottom mumbled, “Makes more sense than Potions usually does.”  
  
Ginevra sat up, an uncomfortably large portion of her face taken over by a smile. “You should tell Snape about this. It might completely change potion making or at least make the class slightly less boring.”  
  
“No, that seems like a bad idea. Snape doesn’t like me.” Also, more people who are not me would have access to liquid luck, which would be terrible.  
  
“I guess I could tell him for you, if you wanted,” she said.  
  
I condescendingly tapped her on the head with my wand, snatching it back when she leaned into the touch. If I wasn’t careful, I’d have another Bellatrix on my hands. “Let me rephrase that. Snape hates all of us.”  
  
Luna’s voice drifted out of my trunk. “Harry?”  
  
I amended my previous statement. “Except for Luna. I don’t know how he treats Ravenclaws.”  
  
“Only slightly better than Hufflepuffs,” Ginevra chirped.  
  
Luna’s voice was fainter this time. “Harry? I’m lost.”

* * *

Hermione nervously stroked her wand, muttering, “Harry, why do you have a shield charm up?”  
  
I glanced around the Great Hall. There were no eavesdroppers, at the moment, aside from Ginevra. “Put yours up. Ron, hide behind Hermione. Ginevra, hide behind Ron.”  
  
Obstinate as ever, all three cast separate shields. I growled in annoyance. Hermione frowned. “No, seriously. Why are we doing this?”  
  
“They’re watching.”  
  
“Who’re _they_?” Ginevra asked, voice dropping to match mine.  
  
“The other students. I think they’re preparing an attack.” It wouldn’t be the first time.  
  
Hermione dropped her charm and said, “They’re just curious.”  
  
“I sense anger, and I very rarely get that one wrong.” I glared at an errant Hufflepuff who had the gall to glare back. They were rebelling, just as I always knew they would.  
  
“Well, I guess some of them might be riled up by the papers. They’ve been pretty bad about you lately, what with Dumbledore saying You-Know-Who’s back,” Ron said.  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “And I was not informed of this because…?”  
  
Hermione said, “In a trunk. Besides, Rita Skeeter –“  
  
“Wait, didn’t we kill her?!” I exclaimed.  
  
Hermione winced. “No, Harry. We didn’t kill her.”  
  
“No, no. I remember this specifically. You were trying to starve her to death, and I said that was too evil. We were going to take her out some other way, though. Just what have you been doing all summer?”  
  
An obnoxious Gryffindor said, “A murderer, too! Wait until my Ma hears about this. Of course, we all knew you were a crazy, attention-seeking liar.”  
  
Hermione pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Harry _is_ all of those things. But rarely at the same time.”  
  
“Also, he’s my best mate,” Ron said. “It doesn’t matter how true your insults are; I’m hexing you for having a go at him.”  
  
“I’ll help,” Ginevra squealed.  
  
I raised a hand. “Down, Weasleys. I can handle this.”  
  
They reluctantly acquiesced. I stared at the Gryffindor through my shimmering shield charm. “Tell me, have I ever been quoted as saying that Lord Voldemort is back? Have you ever seen me say that? Am I saying it now?”  
  
He appeared confused. “So you’re saying he isn’t, then?”  
  
I chuckled. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I certainly saw some snake-like man burst from a cauldron. However, I cannot say with certainty that he was Voldemort. I’ve never even seen a photograph of the man.”  
  
“There aren’t many of them around, and they’re almost never in the history books,” Hermione said.  
  
Ron snorted. “Not surprising, is it? It’s bloody creepy when he smiles and waves at you.”  
  
I’ve always loved having my picture taken.

The Gryffindor cleared his throat. “But Dumbledore said that you said that Voldemort was back.”  
  
“Dumbledore is clearly trying to manipulate you all. I am neutral on the Voldemort issue. Tell all of your friends.”  
  
The Gryffindor, still looking dazed, wandered off.  
  
Ron nodded, standing tall as though he had just chased the boy away single-handedly. Hermione said, “That should quiet some of the louder Gryffindors.”  
  
I quirked an eyebrow.  
  
“You were in your trunk,” Ginevra said.  
  
I sighed. “Trust Dumbledore to sabotage my reputation.”  
  
The redhead tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Well, he hasn’t done a very good job. The Gryffindors are mostly behind you, already. The Hufflepuffs think you’re lying. But you insult them in public, so you never stood a chance there. The Ravenclaws who are lucid enough to understand what’s going on are reserving judgment. And the Slytherins believe you because Voldemort killed most of their parents.”  
  
I hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose we have that in common.”

* * *

I stared at my folded hands, Dumbledore’s phoenix burning my face as it crept ever-closer. “Sir, I think your bird is hissing at me.”  
  
“Because he likes you, my boy,” Dumbledore said.  
  
The phoenix slowly backed away. A quick glance showed that its beady, black eyes still watched my every move. “You said the same thing about Snape.”  
  
“They’re both rather unconventional in showing their fondness,” he said.  
  
I’ve often wondered if Dumbledore was attempting to orchestrate my death through negligence.  
  
Dumbledore steepled his fingers, leaning forward. “Do you know why I called you here today, Harry?”  
  
I spoke very quickly. “Is it because I publically denounced you in front of the entire student body?”  
  
The old man looked surprised for a moment, an obvious act, before coughing. “I may wish to speak of that later, but no. Did you hear about the break in at the Ministry of Magic this summer?”  
  
“No,” I said, thinking of the prophecy orb which now served as a make-shift lamp in my trunk. “Why would I know anything about the Ministry? I don’t keep up with politics. You should tell me about it.”  
  
“The details don’t matter,” he said. “What you need to understand is that Voldemort broke into the Ministry to steal something very important. Something that concerns you both. A prophecy.”  
  
I tried to channel my inner Ron. “We read about those in Divination, I think. Don’t they tell the future or something?”  
  
“They do indeed. This prophecy concerns Voldemort and yourself. I heard it many years ago, and it seems that Voldemort now knows it. I believe it is time that you do, as well.”  
  
I frowned. “I’m confused. Why am I always the last to know about these things?”  
  
“I was trying to protect your innocence.”  
  
How would a normal fifteen-year-old respond to that? Hermione would write a book report. Ron would turn red and start sputtering. Malfoy would go brush his hair or something.  
  
I gave up that line of thought and shrugged because scoffing seemed suspicious.  
  
Smiling, Dumbledore prepared a pensieve and showed me his memory of Trelawney’s prophecy.  
  
As I swirled back into the real world, I asked. “Are you sure that this is genuine? This _is_ Trelawney we’re talking about here. According to her, I’m supposed to have died six times by now. I know; she usually gives dates.”  
  
“I’m quite certain of its validity.”  
  
I shivered at the thought of what disturbing rituals Dumbledore had performed to satisfy him of this. I shook myself, turning to brighter topics. “So I have to kill Voldemort, then?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said, as noncommittal as ever. “Or perhaps you might defeat him with love.”  
  
I snorted. “Fire doesn’t kill everything, Headmaster…Wait, I have a brilliant idea.”  
  
“Oh, yes?” he asked.  
  
I widened my eyes, which I could imagine shining with excitement. “Could you teach me your Dark Magic?”  
  
The phoenix dived for my head.

* * *

It was a typical evening in the Gryffindor common room: Hermione was polishing off the tenth page of our five-page Charms essay, Ron was thrashing Longbottom in chess (an accomplishment that was more embarrassing than impressive), and Ginevra was by the fireplace pretending to have other friends.  
  
“Dumbledore won’t talk to me,” I grumbled. This would usually be a good thing, but I now had no idea what he was plotting.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have asked him for his _Dark Magic_.”  
  
“I’ll admit that might have been rude,” I conceded, “but he’d just told me that I had to kill Lord Voldemort. And, really, it’s very selfish of him to hoard it. He doesn’t even have an heir.”  
  
Ron looked up from the chessboard where his knight was busy decapitating Longbottom’s queen. He said, “Mate, Dumbledore isn’t evil.”  
  
“I never said Dumbledore was evil.” Implied, yes, but outright stated? Absolutely not, everyone knows the portraits spy for him.  
  
I continued, “Besides, that has nothing to do with this conversation.”  
  
Hermione got a queer look on her face and asked, “Harry, just what do you think Dark Magic is?”  
  
I snorted. “Secret magic retained within a family, obviously. That’s why they call it Dark Magic. It’s kept in the dark where very few people get to see it.”  
  
“But I thought it was just evil magic,” Ron said. “Like spells that make people’s eyes explode and stuff.”  
  
“Well, of course it’s mostly that. If I invented a spell that made eyeballs explode, I wouldn’t tell everyone about it. People would start asking awkward questions like: ‘Why would you make something like that?’ and ‘What’s wrong with you?’ and ‘Are you the person going around exploding people’s eyeballs?’  
  
“Then they would start to use it on you, or they’d come up with a counter-curse, ruining the whole point of inventing it in the first place. Actually, that’s where most of the spells we learn in class come from. Petrificus Totalus, for instance.”  
  
Hermione huffed. “That’s ridiculous. Petrificus Totalus is perfectly harmless.”  
  
I said, “Oh, sure, it’s all good fun now that everyone knows the counter-spell, but no one was laughing when the Parkinsons used it to bury their political enemies alive.”  
  
Hermione gasped, hands flying up to cup her mouth and Charms assignment forgotten on her lap. “That’s horrible.”  
  
“Magic usually is,” I said, “but Dark Magic isn’t any more evil than the rest. It’s just very exclusive.”  
  
A light of understanding weakly lit within Ron’s Weasley eyes. “So, when you said that my family had Dark Magic…”  
  
“I assumed that during your nine hundred year history, at least one of your ancestors invented a spell and then didn’t go out and tell everyone,” I said.  
  
“Ginny isn’t evil then?” Ron said.  
  
I paused, thinking for a moment. “I’m not sure. Only one way to find out, I suppose.”  
  
“Wha-?”  
  
I turned to towards the fireplace and shouted, “Ginevra, Hermione is recruiting for her Dark army. Would you like to join?”  
  
Ginevra appeared thoughtful. “Are you going to join?”  
  
“I haven’t decided yet,” I admitted.  
  
“Let me know when you do.” She nodded decisively and then turned back to her previous conversation.  
  
I said to Ron, “See, she’s less evil then Hermione.”  
  
“I’m not evil,” Hermione said.  
  
I chuckled. “Then we have nothing to worry about.”  
  
Ron frowned. “Someone should probly let Dumbledore know that Harry isn’t evil, either.”

* * *

“Hem, hem,” Umbridge hem-hemed.  
  
I turned _Most Potente Potions_ to page four hundred and twelve.  
  
“Hem, hem.”  
  
A flick of my wand sent three small fires dancing atop my desk. I glanced up disdainfully at her toad-like face. “What is it?”  
  
“Can you tell me, Mr. Potter, why a cauldron is on top of your desk?”  
  
I frowned, adjusting it slightly so that the fires evenly heated its pewter sides. “Felix Felicis is very sensitive to altitudes. This isn’t ideal, but it’ll have to do.”  
  
She pursed her lips so that they looked a bit like a duck’s bill. “And why aren’t you reading your textbook?”  
  
“I already did that,” I said.  
  
“In this class, we read the textbook,” she said slowly, smiling as if I couldn’t sense her evil intentions.  
  
“Yes, which is why everyone hates your class” – I turned around to the seat behind me – “Right, Hermione?”  
  
“Harry! You can’t say things like that to professors.”  
  
I turned triumphantly back to Umbridge. “If she didn’t hate your class, she would have said that. For instance, she’ll never accept that Potions might as well be self-study.”  
  
Hermione huffed. “Potions is a perfectly reasonable subject, which requires a teacher to ensure its students’ safety.”  
  
“See? We all hate your class. I would blame the curriculum, but I don’t think we have one of those. You’re just a terrible teacher.”  
  
Her chest heaved up and down in fury. “How dare you –“  
  
“It’s not just me. Snape agrees, and he should know. He’s a terrible teacher, too.”  
  
Umbridge said, “I have absolutely no interest in the opinions of a half-breed werewolf.”  
  
I laughed at her idiocy. “Snape is a full werewolf. There’s no such thing as a half werewolf, and you would know that if you knew anything about your subject.”  
  
“Detention, Mr. Potter!” she cried.  
  
I glared. “Fine, we’ll talk about werewolves. Maybe you’ll even learn something.”

* * *

“But the only way to seal a werewolf bite is with a mixture of powdered silver and dittany. Mind you, it doesn’t do much good against –“  
  
Umbridge interrupted, and I was suddenly quite certain that she hadn’t been listening at all. “Your detention will be very simple. You will write ‘I must not interrupt class.’”  
  
“There wasn’t a class to interrupt.”  
  
“You will write it as many times as it takes to sink in,” she said tightly, pulling out a thin, black quill.  
  
I gestured widely with my wand. “It’s sunk in. Can I go?”  
  
“Five hundred lines, then,” she said.  
  
I sighed gustily and took the quill.  
  
I was aware that arguing would only irritate her further, a secondary goal, but I knew a blood quill when I saw one. And that complaint had given me just enough time to cast an invisible glove charm, most commonly used by Potions Masters. You see, a blood quill is always attached to the last person whose skin touched it.

In this case, Professor Umbridge.  
  
I smirked and wrote the first line. Umbridge yelped. I wrote the second.  
  
“Mr. Potter!”  
  
I wrote the third, humming merrily under my breath.  
  
“Stop that! Stop that right this instant!” Umbridge shrieked.  
  
I looked up from the parchment, absentmindedly doodling. “What is it, Professor?”  
  
She trembled with rage, clutching her injured hand. “Give me the quill.”  
  
I smiled congenially. “Are you bleeding?”

* * *

“She’s got you in for detention again? I figured you’d have scared her off already,” Ron said, lounging in a chair near the common room fireplace.  
  
“Honestly,” Hermione huffed. “This wouldn’t happen if you didn’t keep antagonizing her.”  
  
“You think she’s terrible, too,” I pointed out.  
  
“Yes, but I don’t tell her that.”  
  
I stared at Hermione, stunned by her selfishness and cowardice. “Then how is she supposed to know?”  
  
Ron said, “She probably already does, mate.”  
  
“No, she could not possibly know how awful she is and then do nothing about it. She’s worse than Quirrel. She’s even worse than Binns! At least he lets us duel in the back of the classroom.”  
  
Hermione said, “You can’t keep doing that, by the way. It’s disrespectful.”  
  
“Binns doesn’t mind,” I said.  
  
She curled her fingers into fists. “He doesn’t notice.”  
  
I nodded. “Exactly. Binns doesn’t stop us from learning. He doesn’t encourage it, either, mind you. I’ve been turning in the same essay every month, and I get the same grade every time.”  
  
“That’s cheating!” Hermione said, as if she didn’t do worse things on a daily basis.  
  
“Binns doesn’t think so.”  
  
Ron appeared awestruck. “That’s brilliant.”  
  
Hermione scowled at him, and he hurriedly added, “But you shouldn’t do that.”  
  
I said, “Why not? We essentially don’t have a teacher for that class. I might as well enjoy the advantages. Regardless, Umbridge is actively ruining our ability to learn. You, of all people, should be upset about that. You’ll fail your OWLs.”  
  
Ginevra giggled in the corner, calling out, “I would pay to see that. It would just be so _weird._ ”  
  
Hermione’s eyes widened until she resembled a house elf. “You’re right. We, we need to do something about this. A study group, maybe. Um, you and Ron will be in it, of course. Neville, too, and I imagine Ginevra will want to join…”  
  
“I do!”  
  
“So that makes five of us,” she said, nodding jerkily. “Good. Alright. And the Ravenclaws, too, if they haven’t already organized something.”  
  
Ginevra said, “They haven’t!”  
  
“Alright, good. We’ll all arrange a meeting time –“  
  
“And I will lead it,” I declared, eyes shining.  
  
This was perfect. If I successfully prepared a class of students for their OWLs, then Dumbledore would have no choice but to give me the DADA position.

* * *

“But there’s nothing here,” Ron said, staring at the blank wall beside the portrait of Barnabus the Barmy and his dancing trolls.  
  
Hermione smirked, head tilted smugly as she began another one of her history lessons. “The Room of Requirement only appears under very specific circumstances, since they tried to seal it several centuries ago, but it’s definitely there.”  
  
She began walking, Ron trailing behind her. She turned abruptly, bumping into Ron, and – face reddened with exertion – continued her pacing.  
  
I stood still and watched the wall. Recalling the storage room where I’d stashed Ravenclaw’s Diadem, I frowned. “How did you find out about this room, again?”  
  
“It’s in _Hogwarts a History_.”  
  
Good, no one ever reads that book, so my Horcrux was fairly safe.  
  
Hermione’s eyes sparkled. “It’s a fascinating story, really. Ravenclaw designed this room a few years after founding the school. It could temporarily summon anything off the grounds, and she often used it when preparing a particularly tricky ritual or spell. Of course, it also became quite popular among the students as a recreation center. But it was too enthralling for some, and a few students never came out. They say you can still find their skeletons, if you ask it for the right thing.”  
  
“Hermione, you’re really not selling me on this room,” I said.  
  
“It doesn’t have any sort of enchantment to lure you in. Some people just don’t like their lives, I suppose. And I don’t have to sell you on it” – a door shimmered into existence – “It will sell itself well enough.”  
  
I opened it, peering inside with my wand raised. The arched ceiling rivaled that of the Great Hall, and wheeled dummies darted about one section, occasionally bumping into sturdier targets. At the far end, a podium overlooked the room. To the side, a bookcase jutted out, connected to the wall by a red, velvet curtain.  
  
“Impressive,” I said.  
  
“Oh, isn’t it?” she sighed, immediately racing to the bookcase.  
  
Ron cast a stunner at one of the dummies, grinning when it flashed bright red and collapsed. “Wicked.”  
  
I wandered about, mentally claiming the podium as my property and taking a head off of a dummy. It promptly regrew it. I wondered if I could instruct the room to not let it do that.  
  
I then peered around the curtain. “Oh, look, there’s even a bed in here for when the members are injured!”  
  
Hermione squeaked, and a library book thudded against the floor.  
  
I frowned. “Of course, we’ll have to get rid of the skeletons first.”

* * *

The grass whispered across my scales as I slithered away from the mansion. I liked it better there. There were more hiding places. But I couldn’t hunt Master’s minions. I wasn’t allowed.  
  
I hissed as a scuffling sound caught my attention. Venom pooled in my mouth, and I lunged forward –  
  
“Harry?”  
  
I blinked, suddenly aware of the Room of Requirement, which was arranged in its usual position for our study group. Hermione and the other Ravenclaws huddled in the corner, whispering, while the rest of the students practiced their Patronuses. After showing the wand motions, I’d sat this lesson out. That spell simply did not like me.  
  
Neville hovered nearby, ready to bolt at any moment.  
  
“Neville!” I cried, slinging an arm around his shoulder, “Just the man I wanted to see.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Of course,” I said. “You.”  
  
“Oh, okay…What do you want?”  
  
I gave the boy a measuring glance. He’d always been pudgy, his timidity had yet to lessen, his classwork was abysmal, and Neville Longbottom was generally pathetic.  
  
Exactly what I required.  
  
“I wish to grant you a great favor,” I said. “I will make you the fifth greatest Hogwarts graduate since it was first founded a thousand years ago.”  
  
Neville shoved his hands into his pocket, a nervous habit acquired from several years of owning a toad that despised captivity. “Fifth?”  
  
“Well, there’s no beating Dumbledore, Voldemort, or myself. And Hermione would probably poison you if you outperformed her.”  
  
“Y-you’re kidding about this, right?” Neville asked.  
  
“Not at all,” I assured him. “I will happily do this for you. All that I ask is that you tell everyone that I was your teacher.”  
  
“Alright,” he said.  
  
I smirked. “Our training shall begin when you least expect it.”  
  
Neville nodded, looking pale. “Um, Hermione sent me to get you. You need to sign the contract…”  
  
I snorted and stalked towards the library. “I don’t sign magical contracts. Remind her of that.”  
  
Neville looked as if he might speak, for a moment, then scurried away.  
  
“I noticed a lot of runes when I visited your house. I don’t suppose you’re trying to summon a demon?” Luna asked. A silvery hare hopped behind her, occasionally stopping to sniff the floor.  
  
“Well, not actively,” I said with a modest shrug.  
  
“Oh” – Luna spent a moment staring into space – “Are you from the future?”  
  
I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so taken aback. “What?”  
  
“Well, it’s just that you get most spells on the first try, except when they’re obscure – in which case you become upset and take slightly longer than average. Also, you know a lot of things that you probably shouldn’t.”  
  
I’ve never been one to diminish my reputation. “It’s true. I come from a time not long removed from now, where I am the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. In my timeline, I successfully defeated Voldemort but then decided that I could do better.”  
  
Luna’s Patronus jerked its head up, then disappeared. Luna spoke softly. “You…you don’t have to lie, you know. You could have just told me I was wrong.”  
  
She departed, her movements less floating than usual. I scowled at her retreating form. “Right. She probably wants an apology or something. Ginevra!”  
  
Ginevra raced from the line of practicing students, and I found myself chuckling at her eagerness. “I need you to apologize to Luna for me.”  
  
“Alright,” the redhead said. “What did you do?”  
  
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. You should probably figure that out before you apologize to her, or you’ll look like a jerk.”


	12. Harry Potter vs. Dolores Umbridge (Pt. 2)

I stormed into Dumbledore’s office, summons in hand, and slammed it down upon the old man’s desk. “I don’t care what Umbridge has told you! Pensieve memories can be faked, and everyone knows that Veritaserum doesn’t work on sociopaths.”  
  
Dumbledore remained calm, a trait that was as unwavering as it was frustrating. “Mr. Potter –“  
  
“I have done nothing, and I will testify to this under Veritaserum.”  
  
The phoenix screeched in irritation, and I screeched back to establish dominance. Dumbledore said, “Mr. Potter, this meeting does not concern Professor Umbridge.”  
  
“Oh,” I said. “That’s good because I haven’t done anything.”  
  
He offered me a lemon drop. “Yes, I know. You were quite vocal about that earlier.”  
  
I spoke slowly. “I don’t suppose you’re planning to teach me Dark Magic?”  
  
His eyes twinkled. “No, I’m afraid not. Although Miss Weasley did enlighten me about your unique definition for the term.”  
  
I would have to talk with her about meddling in my affairs without my consent. I made a note of that and then promptly forgot it when Dumbledore said, “Have you noticed anything strange lately?”  
  
I sank into the seat in front of Dumbledore’s desk. “Well, the ghosts _have_ been whispering among themselves a lot. Do you think they’re rebelling?”  
  
“No, that likely has to do with the Bloody Baron’s deathday. I was referring to whether _you_ have experienced something strange lately. Odd visions, voices, urges. Anything of that sort,” he prompted.  
  
I considered his question. Every few nights, I dreamt that I was once again Lord Voldemort, ordering and crucioing my Death Eaters. Just this morning, I’d missed the entirety of Professor Flitwick’s lecture because I was too caught up in daydreaming that I was a man-eating snake. And I’d nearly taken Ron’s head off during a recent meeting of our new study group when I felt a sudden and inexplicable flash of rage.  
  
For quite possibly the first time in my life, I answered Albus Dumbledore honestly. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”  
  
He frowned. “Nothing at all?”  
  
I shook my head, jumping a bit when the phoenix landed on the desk in front of me.  
  
“Is that a problem?” I asked.  
  
“No, no, it’s very good, actually.”  
  
I peered into his eyes. “Really? You seem sort of disappointed about it.”  
  
Dumbledore spoke gravely. “I had suspected that your scar might connect you to Voldemort, allowing you some sort of window into his mind. If this had been the case, then his rebirth would have caused certain side effects to both of you. It seems I was wrong. That I was incorrect is almost certainly for the better.”  
  
“Huh,” I said, yanking my hand away from the phoenix’s bite, “I don’t suppose I can leave now?”  
  
Dumbledore waved me towards the door. “Go ahead. Though I do hope that Professor Umbridge will have no cause to pay me a visit today…”  
  
“Of course not,” I scoffed. “I’ve done nothing.”  
  
The phoenix watched me leave with black, judging eyes.

* * *

“Lucius!” I cried, waving my minion over to take a seat in front of my (previously his) desk.  
  
Lucius, startled, said, “My lord.”  
  
“Yes, that is who I am,” I said, “How are you?”  
  
Lucius raised a trembling hand. “I’m still in pain, and I can’t do any paperwork until the nerves heal…”  
  
“Right, the crucioing,” I said with a knowing nod. “Sorry about that. I had a flash of sudden and inexplicable rage.”  
  
He frowned. Really, I expected him to be more cheerful since I’d gotten that Hair-Growth Potion. I shrugged off his ungratefulness. “I had the weirdest dream yesterday.”  
  
Lucius dully asked, clearly struggling to hide his curiosity, “Was that during the nap you took after crucioing me?”  
  
I beamed. “Yes, that’s the one! I was in History of Magic, and you were there. And a Weasley. And then we started dueling in the back of the classroom, but Binns didn’t stop us because he didn’t notice. It angered me greatly. Do you know why?”  
  
Lucius frowned, smoothing down his hair with a shaking hand. “Because you didn’t get to crucio anyone?”  
  
I laughed. “No, no. I just can’t stop thinking: Why didn’t I do that when I was still a student? Binns probably wouldn’t have noticed. Oh, before I forget. One of your peacocks was being insubordinate, so I killed it. Dobby promised to have it ready for dinner I’m not actually certain if people eat peacocks, but I imagine the taste of victory will override any unpleasant flavor.”

* * *

Hermione nibbled on the tip of her quill, looking at her newly-purchased planner. “This would be a lot easier if we didn’t have to work around your detentions with Umbridge.”  
  
“I consider it recreation at this point,” I said, “and we’re making real progress. She’s finally acknowledged that she has no idea how to deal with boggarts.”  
  
Hermione pinched her lips. “ _Why_?”  
  
“She can’t even get the one out from under her bed.”  
  
She jotted something down in the margin. “Do I even want to know how you got it under there?”  
  
“Lemon drops,” I said. “I’m thinking I’ll work on werewolves next.”  
  
“You can’t put Professor Lupin under Umbridge’s bed,” she sighed.  
  
“I was thinking Snape, though I suppose Lupin _would_ be the better choice. He can deal with the boggart.”  
  
“Harry James Po–“  
  
A loud boom echoed through the Room of Requirement, and we watched, stunned, as a dummy slammed into the wall and fell into pieces. Its head landed in my batch of Felix Felicis with a sickly hiss and a string of black smoke.  
  
Finally, Hermione said, “Ron? What type of spell was that?”  
  
“A stunner,” Ron said.  
  
“Oh,” she said. “You, um, you might want to put a little less energy into it next time.”  
  
I said, “Or…you could not do that.”

* * *

Meow! Mew! Rrrowr! Purrrr…  
  
This was completely ridiculous. Kitten plates covered Umbridge’s wall, constantly mewling and fighting with each other. I usually took my detentions in the DADA classroom, but it hadn’t yet recovered from my last detention.  
  
I turned away from my parchment and a quill that used actual ink and towards Umbridge, who was pretending to grade papers but primarily watching me fail to write lines. I said, “It doesn’t matter how many kittens you put on your wall. No one will ever believe you have a soul.”  
  
That might have seemed a bit harsh. Still, I’d been fighting a strange urge to crucio someone all day (preferably Malfoy), and I needed to vent.  
  
She raised an arm, pink sleeve swinging perilously close to my inkwell. “Well, I hardly think –“  
  
“And the pink!” I cried. “Wait, of course. You’re still using the methods that allowed you to appear normal during your childhood. Unfortunately, the kittens and pink and crooning voice only further alienate you from your current peers. You’re sixty-seven, and it’s creepy now…which reminds me: Happy birthday.”  
  
Umbridge’s face was beginning to match her robes. She smiled tightly. “Are you lying again, Mr. Potter? Tut, tut. It looks like you –“  
  
“Wait! Before you say anything else, I am obligated to inform you that, if you assign me any more detentions, I will technically be your apprentice.”  
  
“Detention” – she smiled sweetly – “A week’s worth.”

* * *

“…Really, Ronald!” Hermione exclaimed as we exited the Great Hall. We were stopped short, however, when Draco Malfoy, along with Crabbe and Goyle, stepped in front of us.  
  
“Malfoy,” I said, nodding.  
  
“Potter,” he said. “Still dragging along the Weasel and your pet Mudblood, eh? I don’t suppose you’ve rethought my offer for more _fitting_ companionship?”  
  
“Not really. Have you reconsidered being my minion?”  
  
Ron laughed at the suggestion, while Hermione nearly growled. She had been getting rather territorial lately. Between her and Ginevra, it was a wonder I’d recruited so many new minions this year.  
  
Malfoy snapped, “I would never –“  
  
We clearly had nothing to discuss, since we were once again at a standstill, so I continued walking. Ron nearly tripped, distracted by his shuddering laughter.

Malfoy gaped, “Hey! Get back here.”  
  
I turned around, eyebrow quirked.  
  
“You can’t just leave,” the blond said. Right, he hadn’t gotten around to talking about his father or his money yet.  
  
Ron crossed his arms menacingly, though Malfoy’s hulking minions diminished the affect. The redhead said, “You bloody well bet we can.”  
  
“Actually, you _poor_ Weasel, that is no longer allowed under High Inquisitor Umbridge’s rules,” Malfoy said. “Only two students can be together outside of classes.”  
  
“Three’s more than that,” Crabbe put in helpfully.  
  
Malfoy smirked. “So you’ll have to split up, or I’ll dock points from Gryffindor.”  
  
Hermione glared, hand flying to her prefect’s badge. “Prefects are not allowed to dock points from other houses! It’s a clear conflict of interest.”  
  
“Ten points for arguing with a member of Umbridge’s new Inquisitorial Squad, who, by the way, can take as many points as they like” – he raised a hand at Ron’s opening mouth – “And are exempt from the three-person rule.”  
  
I knew he wouldn’t stay independent for long. Malfoys were born to minion.  
  
Malfoy turned to me triumphantly. “I’ll give fifty to Slytherin if you agree to an alliance.”  
  
“I’m rooting for Gryffindor now,” I said regretfully.  
  
“Bollocks,” he muttered.  
  
“How’d you even get on this squad, Malfoy?” Ron asked. “I don’t remember hearing anything about it.”  
  
“Well, it’s very exclusive. My father –“  
  
Well, that’s two for two.

Hermione sweetly cut in, “So you bought your place, then?”  
  
Malfoy scowled. “Umbridge just prefers a better quality of wizard.”  
  
“Oh, my apologies,” she crooned. “Nepotism. I can’t say I’m surprised. That’s how you get everything else: Your place on the Quidditch team, your spot as a prefect –“  
  
“Jealous, Granger?” Malfoy asked.  
  
“Not at all. I can’t even _imagine_ how exhausting it must be to realize that you simply aren’t good enough for anything” – a very Dumbledore gleam lit her eyes – “That must be the reason you’re in Slytherin, too. After all, you don’t exactly fit the requirements very well. You’re simple-minded, unsubtle, and unambitious.”  
  
“Typical Hufflepuff traits,” I said.  
  
Hermione ignored me, too focused on the kill. “You’re Pureblood, I suppose, presuming your mother didn’t – “  
  
Malfoy trembled with rage. “Shut up, Mudblood.”  
  
He threw the first spell, but Hermione was the one that got a detention. Admittedly, that wasn’t as unreasonable as it might have seemed. She could be positively vicious when aimed at an acceptable target.

* * *

Hermione slammed the Room of Requirement’s door shut, startling me from target practice (with Neville as the target).  
  
“So,” I asked, shooting a spell over my shoulder. “How was detention?”  
  
“Fine,” she hissed.  
  
I frowned. “You used the charm I showed you, right? Because, if you didn’t, then that would be really dumb, and I don’t take you for some sort of Hufflepuff.”  
  
In the distance, a Hufflepuff blew the head off of a dummy. Hermione said, “Yes, I used the glove.”  
  
“Did she bleed?” I prodded.  
  
“Yes, Harry, she bloody well bled!” she shouted. “And then Malfoy waited outside to take more points for injuring a teacher because he’s a great, big git!”  
  
She stormed towards the library.  
  
“What’s got her knickers in a twist?” Ron asked, absentmindedly shooting a curse at Neville.  
  
I shrugged. “I don’t…Wait, never mind. I think I know.”  
  
I wandered over to the library’s table, smiling uneasily as Hermione glared up from her hastily-acquired book. She said, “What?”  
  
Right. How to approach this? I’d never had someone willing to have this discussion with me when I was a confused, pubescent boy. “Hermione…You are a beautiful, brilliant young woman, and it’s natural for you to have certain urges.”  
  
Her eyes widened. “Harry, you do not have to –“  
  
I forged on. “You might look around at some of your classmates who are wealthy and attractive, and want – very badly – to crush them beneath your heel.”  
  
Hermione blinked a few times in quick succession. “I have to admit, that was absolutely not where I thought this conversation was going.”  
  
I smiled, placing a hand on her shoulder. “When you see someone like Malfoy, all you want is for him to kneel down and kiss your robes.”  
  
“Harry, I don’t want that. That would be horrible.”  
  
I shook my head. “No, see, you’re making this a good and evil thing. It’s not. This is about power. He has it, and you want him to give you that power and suffer for keeping it from you for so long.”  
  
She pouted. “Honestly, I just want him to stop bothering me and possibly never speak again.”  
  
“If he was your minion, you could make him do those things.”  
  
Hermione took a deep breath, then sighed gustily. “I don’t think you understand this, so I’m going to explain it as simply as possible. He’s a git, and I don’t like him.”  
  
“Of course he is. He’s only fifteen. One day, Malfoy is going to realize just how much he wants to be your minion, and he is going to feel _so_ embarrassed about all this.”  
  
Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands.

* * *

I threw the doors open, storming into Lucius’s Great Hall…formal dining room…ballroom…long, high-ceilinged room which made my voice echo menacingly. I declared, “Welcome, my dearest, most _loyal_ servants!”  
  
I suddenly noticed the nearly empty room. Lucius clutched his snake-headed cane tightly.  
  
Severus, meanwhile, remained stoic. I’m still not entirely certain that he experiences emotion. I’d never found any while using Legilimency.  
  
I scowled. “Where is the rest of the inner circle?”  
  
“Indisposed, my lord,” Severus drawled.  
  
“What could possibly be more important than attending to me?” I snapped. “That idiot Crabbe doesn’t even have a job. I could kill him for this insult.”  
  
Severus smirked. “Actually, you did kill him. Several months ago.”  
  
How forward-thinking of me. I settled onto my new throne, made with a pile of Malfoy portraits. To my delight, they wailed every time I sat down. “What about Wilkes?”  
  
“He died during the last war,” Severus said.  
  
I stroked my chin. “Zabini?”  
  
Lucius anxiously petted his hair, as he often does. “His wife got him.”  
  
I gripped my wand, lazily pointing it at Lucius. “Rosier?”  
  
The blond fell to his knees in a grovel. “You killed him an hour ago, my lord.”  
  
Wait, did I? “I’m well aware of that. I was testing you.”  
  
Severus watched me impassively. “Of course, my lord.”  
  
I said, “What about Bellatrix, then? I’m quite certain I didn’t kill her.”  
  
“She is in Azkaban,” Severus said.  
  
“Oh…” – I tapped my wand against my chin thoughtfully – “Why?”  
  
“You likely recall that she is a Death Eater,” Severus said.  
  
“Plenty of people are Death Eaters,” I said. “They aren’t in Azkaban.”  
  
“Well, yes,” Lucius said, “but Bellatrix admitted to it.”  
  
“Bellatrix never struck me as a Hufflepuff,” I muttered, “Why would she be so stupid?”  
  
“There wasn’t much point in denying her involvement,” Snape drawled. “When they caught her, she was busy torturing the Longbottoms into insanity.”  
  
“Yes. She did always like that…So, she’s been in there for…?”  
  
“Thirteen years,” Lucius said helpfully.  
  
I leaned back on my throne, smiling as the Malfoy ancestors groaned underneath me. “That’s pretty long. We should do something about that.”

* * *

Hermione received the morning Prophet, eyes immediately skimming the byline for Rita Skeeter. She soon relaxed, evidence that the front page articles were written by someone else. Satisfied, the girl turned her gaze to the headline and cursed.  
  
I’m not sure if she’s ever done that before.  
  
“You alright, ‘Mione?” Ron asked.  
  
She said, “There’s been a jailbreak at Azkaban. All the Death Eaters have escaped.”  
  
Ron began to smile, then frowned, then settled for his usual confused expression. “Well, that’s good, right? Yeah, a bunch of Death Eaters are probably going to attack us. More than usual, I mean, but at least now they can’t say that You-Know-Who isn’t back.”  
  
Hermione crumpled the paper, hissing, “They’re blaming it on Sirius Black.”  
  
“Well, to be fair, it could have been Black,” I said. “He hasn’t tried to kill me in months, which just doesn’t seem like him. He must be plotting _something_ in his spare time.”  
  
“Harry, this is serious!”  
  
Ron grinned through a mouthful of mashed-up toast, “Or, it cuh be _Shirius_. Y’know, like Shirius Bl-“  
  
Hermione said, “Not the time. Also, finish chewing. Some of the absolute worst people from the last war could be coming here: The Mulcibers, Augustus Rookwood, Hagrid, Bellatrix Lestrange…Harry, are you even listening to me?!”  
  
I startled back into reality. “Oh, yes, sorry. Just had a sudden feeling of déjà vu.”  
  
Hermione huffed, shoving away her half-eaten breakfast to make room for a book on hexes.

* * *

I stopped by the Room of Requirement after detention, disappointed to find Neville collapsed on the ground. “Neville, why aren’t you running?”  
  
“I can’t,” he panted. “Too much.”  
  
“I’m trying to make you a legend here,” I said. “I thought you wanted that.”  
  
“I guess,” Neville muttered.  
  
“Then why are you giving up already?” I asked, feeling a bit like Hermione.  
  
“It’s, uh, not helping me with my magic,” Neville said. “All this running around.”  
  
I scowled. Neville had completely misinterpreted this offer, but everyone now knew that he was my student and I had no intention of failing now. “I never said anything about magic. Just being great. Also killing evil wizards. Or good wizards, depending on whether you decide to join up with Hermione.”  
  
Ginevra, who was helping a Ravenclaw with his spellwork, shouted, “Hermione’s studying right now, but she said that – if you said that – I should mention that she isn’t evil.”  
  
“Regardless of Hermione’s lies,” I said. “Physical prowess is a rarely used but surprisingly effective tool for destroying your enemies. Most wizards cannot handle close-quarters combat. Even the most incompetent wizard can excel if he’s good with a sword or something. Just look at Godric Gryffindor.”  
  
Neville blinked. “Oh. Okay.”  
  
It was nice to tell someone something without Hermione around to complain about fact-checking or non-existent sources or common sense.  
  
He frowned, standing. “Why don’t you exercise?”  
  
“Oh, that’s because I’m actually good at magic.”  
  
Neville swayed on his feet, looking miserable again. I’m not sure why. I’d done a perfectly good job cheering him up.  
  
A quiet voice said, “Don’t worry, Neville. Wrackspurts are attracted to the pollen on your clothes. You would probably be fine in a colder climate.”  
  
I beamed, whirling around to find Luna Lovegood. “You’re back! I presume you got Ginevra’s apology?”  
  
She nodded. “Yes, she seemed very sincere about it.”  
  
“Good, good,” I said while Neville trudged away from us. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”  
  
“I’ve just been wondering…Are you a Department of Mysteries spy?”  
  
I frowned, curbing the urge to build my legend. “Why do you think that?”  
  
“I would expect Harry Potter to get special training. But they wouldn’t want anyone to know about that, so they sent a spy in his place. Also, you’re friends with a lot of important people: the Weasleys, the smartest girl in our generation, the son of Voldemort’s right-hand man –“  
  
“Sirius Black had a son?” Was it Ron? It was probably Ron.  
  
“No, I mean Draco Malfoy. Although I suppose he could be Black’s son,” she said thoughtfully.  
  
“Oh, he’s not my friend.”  
  
“Really?” – Luna hummed to herself – “There’s also the Longbottom heir and the Quibbler editor’s daughter.”  
  
“I legitimately have no idea which one that is,” I admitted.  
  
She stared at me with wide, pale eyes. “Me.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“So, you’re not a spy, then?”  
  
I chuckled. “Of course not. Hermione’s the spy. The Department of Mysteries wouldn’t send two spies.”  
  
Luna pouted. “Harry, Hermione isn’t a spy for the Department of Mysteries. That would be silly.”

* * *

“I hardly think this is necessary,” McGonagall said, lips thinned with annoyance.  
  
Umbridge merrily followed the other woman into her office. She tittered. “Now, now, Minerva, I observed all of the werewolf’s career advice sessions. We wouldn’t want any insinuations of favoritism, now would we?”  
  
“That werewolf is my colleague,” McGonagall spat. “Also, that’s just a silly rumor among the students. They’ve been calling him a vampire for years.”  
  
“Well, they do say that children are intuitive about these things,” she said.  
  
McGonagall raised an eyebrow, sitting primly behind her desk. “I suspect _they_ had little experience with children.”  
  
I lowered my invisibility cloak’s hood. It was a wonder it had lasted this long. Of course, Dumbledore had likely lied about its age, as he often does. Umbridge squeaked in fright, and McGonagall’s mouth twitched upwards. She asked, “Here for our meeting, Mr. Potter?”  
  
“Of course,” I said.  
  
“You’re quite early,” McGonagall remarked.  
  
I shrugged. “I was excited.”  
  
She nearly smiled but caught herself just in time. “Two hours early, in fact.”  
  
“Incredibly excited,” I clarified. “Also, I have detention in two hours.”  
  
“I imagine most students would have used this as an excuse to skip detention,” she said.  
  
I smiled, taking a seat in front of her desk. “No, that’s alright. I like detention.”  
  
It wouldn’t be nearly as fun if I followed the professors’ instructions, but, unlike the other students, I have no fear of expulsion. Dumbledore would never allow me that far from his domain.  
  
“Ah,” McGonagall said. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, what is your opinion on Professor Umbridge’s presence at this meeting?”  
  
“It seems reasonable to me,” I said.  
  
Umbridge smirked. “Thank you –“  
  
“After all, that’s perfectly within her rights as my master. If she was at any other students’ meetings, however, that would be weird.”  
  
It was nice to see Umbridge scowling again. Her smile gave me the heebie-jeebies.  
  
Umbridge turned to McGonagall and said, “I simply do not understand why you’ve allowed a clearly mentally ill boy to go untreated for so long while under your care.”  
  
“Mr. Potter is simply a child, Dolores. It’s no surprise you don’t understand that since you have so very little experience in teaching.”  
  
McGonagall turned smoothly back to me. “Now, Mr. Potter, have you given any thought to your future career?”  
  
“Of course,” I said, beaming, “I’m going to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts.”  
  
McGonagall was silent for a few moments, no doubt impressed by how astutely I had chosen my career path. “Are you certain that’s a wise decision, Mr. Potter?”  
  
“Well, yeah, I mean, I’m pretty good at Defense, and I’m great with kids.” I’d been surrounded by them for the past several years, and not one child had suffered irreparable harm while under my care. This is particularly impressive because I lead them into dangerous situations all the time.  
  
“Besides,” I said, “the position’s always open.”  
  
“And that doesn’t concern you,” McGonagall prodded. Umbridge scribbled something on her notepad.  
  
“No, not at all. I’ve survived everything that got rid of the last ones.” And I wasn’t very well going to murder myself.  
  
“Perhaps Mr. Potter would be suited for a more” – Umbridge coughed lightly – “ _simple_ position. I hardly think the stresses of professorship would be well suited to his delicate mind, and his delinquent tendencies are hardly fitting for the post.”  
  
“You’re the only person who ever gives me detention,” I pointed out. “I could easily argue that the problem is not me, but you.”  
  
I would be lying, of course. Snape still docked points from Slytherin for my misconduct, McGonagall had devised a method of punishment whereby my favorite desserts would go unmade for days after any particularly concerning transgressions, and Filch had actively avoided me since my only detention with him back in second year.  
  
“That’s ridiculous! You _earn_ those detentions through your disrespect.”  
  
“And you earn my disrespect by being a terrible teacher,” I explained. “So, if you would stop doing that, you wouldn’t have to put up with my detentions anymore.”  
  
“Detention,” she hissed, stubborn as ever.  
  
I shrugged. “Besides, I would have thought you would approve of my choice to take your job. Why else would you make me your apprentice?”  
  
The rest of the Gryffindor’s career advice meetings had to be postponed because Umbridge exploded McGonagall’s office. As I explained to Umbridge during my later detention, her temper was one of many traits that made her such a terrible choice for Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

* * *

“No, not the Bubblehead Charm,” Hermione muttered. “Nearly everyone knows it already, and the few that don’t can learn it from the others during their self-guided period. I…hm. Did Neville ever figure out the Patronus?”  
  
It took me a moment to realize that Hermione was no longer talking to herself. I said, “It doesn’t really matter. We’ve given up on magic for Neville.”  
  
“Honestly, Harry, he can’t just give up on magic. We go to a school for magic.”  
  
“Actually, we go to a school for witches and wizards. Neville has more traditional talents, like swordsmanship.”  
  
Hermione glanced up from her half-filled planner. “I didn’t know Neville could use a sword.”  
  
“He’s working on it.” I nodded to the other end of the room, where Neville was hacking at a dummy with a sword.  
  
Hermione’s lips pursed. “Is that a real sword?”  
  
I said, “I suppose that depends on your definition of _real._ Yes, it cuts things, but the Room may have created it solely to fulfill our wishes.”  
  
We walked over to Neville, and Neville waved hello with his sword.  
  
Hermione gasped, eyes wide. “Oh, Merlin, or Gryffindor, or…Oh my.”  
  
“Are you alright?” he asked. “I didn’t cut you or anything, right? I, uh, don’t think I was that close, but it might be magic. Well, more magic than –“  
  
“Give it to me. I’d like to examine it,” she said weakly.  
  
He did so, and it disappeared.  
  
Hermione stared at her empty hands.  
  
“Well, you’ve destroyed it. How is Neville supposed to become good at anything now?” I grumbled.  
  
The sword appeared in Neville’s grasp. Hermione leaned forward, sucking air in through her large teeth. “This is the Sword of Gryffindor.”  
  
I snatched it from Neville, growling as it once again disappeared. A crowd had begun to gather, mumbling and eyeing Neville enviously each time the sword reappeared in his hands. Someone would make a grab for it, only for it to vanish again and again.  
  
Above the commotion, Dumbledore’s phoenix perched, watching us. As it always does.  
  
“The Sword of Gryffindor can only be wielded by those who are worthy of the house,” Hermione explained.  
  
Finally, licking his lips nervously, Ron took the sword from Neville. He stared at it in awe. “I feel like Merlin, from that story with the stone and sword.”  
  
“You mean King Arthur, Ronald,” Hermione said.  
  
“No,” he said, “I mean Merlin. Who’s that other bloke?”

* * *

I crept through the dungeons, feeling like a man-eating snake stalking its prey. Sidling closer, I whispered, “Psst. Draco. Draco. Draaa-“  
  
Malfoy jumped, head whipping about him. “Bloody hell! Potter, what are you doing?”  
  
“I’m invisible.”  
  
Malfoy snorted. “Yes, Potter. I am aware that you’re invisible. You’re always invisible. What I want to know is why you’re in the Slytherin common room.”  
  
I smirked. “I followed someone in. Or maybe I guessed the password. Or maybe I hissed at the wall, and it let me in. Or maybe I’m the Heir of Slytherin, and the castle recognizes my right to be here. I won’t tell you which one. I’m sneaky like that.”  
  
“Potter, everyone can hear you talking,” he pointed out.  
  
My eyes widened at his idiocy and I derisively said, “You don’t have a Silencing Charm up? What are you, a squib?”  
  
He flicked his wand. “You’re not the Heir of Slytherin.”  
  
“Are you sure about that?” – I hissed at him – “Ha-sha-ss-kah.”  
  
He cocked an eyebrow. “Really, Potter?”  
  
“If I’d had a snake, that would have gone a lot better,” I informed him. This is primarily true because the snake would have latched onto Malfoy’s face, and he would have been too distracted to insult me.  
  
“Sure,” Malfoy said. “So, have you finally decided to drop the blood-traitor and mudblood?”  
  
I shook my invisible head. “No, I’ve spent far too much time training them. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to Hermione, though. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I refuse to involve myself in your lover’s spat.”  
  
Malfoy’s face wrinkled in a very Weasley fashion. “Me and Granger? That’s disgusting, Potter. Twenty points from Gryffindor for making me picture that.”  
  
I frowned, realized he couldn’t see it, and frowned harder. “Malfoy, you can’t do that.”  
  
“Potter, I know that you occasionally miss the simple facts of reality, so let me explain this to you. I’m a member of the Inquisitorial Squad, and we’re allowed to take points –“  
  
“I don’t mean it like that,” I interrupted. “I mean, you literally cannot take points from Gryffindor. Gryffindor has no points. The only house that still has points is Slytherin. The only person who even cares anymore is you. I’m telling you this because some people seem to think we’re friends, so you being dumb makes me look bad.”  
  
He sneered. “I am not –“  
  
“No, hear me out here. This is literally the worst example of cheating I’ve ever seen. You have made your group pointless, much like Gryffindor house, and everyone hates you. Even the other Slytherins hate you because you’ve all but stated that the only way your house could win the Cup is if you cheat. Which, to be fair, is true because you haven’t done well in Quidditch since I bought the other three teams new brooms _without_ burdening them with terrible seekers.”  
  
“Potter!” he shouted through the Silencing Charm.  
  
But it was too late. I was already gone.

* * *

I sat at the head of the Malfoy table, atop my throne of wailing portraits, and watched my recently-freed followers. Rookwood was struggling to Imperio a spoon. The Lestrange brothers had slipped under the tablecloth, hissing at anyone who came too close. Hagrid was looking about as if he’d never seen any of us before and had been incredibly violent until Severus reminded him of his status.  
  
They’d entered Azkaban as perfectly competent, if slightly sociopathic, followers and left it as raving lunatics.  
  
Bellatrix, in contrast, had entered as a raving lunatic and left slightly mellowed.  
  
I took a bite of cake, and then, slightly nauseous, set down my fork. “Bellatrix?”  
  
“Yes, my love…I mean my lord?” she crooned, batting her eyes.  
  
Unfortunately, some things even the Dementors cannot cure. “Stop dosing Dobby’s cakes with love potion. I like cake. Dose something I like slightly less, such as the turkey.”  
  
“But everyone eats the turkey,” Bellatrix whined.  
  
I raised an eyebrow, baffled. “Then one of them might love you…I’m pretty sure that’s what you want.”  
  
She pouted, stealing a bite of my cake.  
  
I legitimately had no idea what she was upset about this time. I wasn’t some sort of seer.  
  
I paused. Right. The prophecy. I should probably go get that. Plus, it would be a nice excuse to get Bellatrix out of the house and finally have some cake that hadn’t been tampered with.  
  
“Bellatrix,” I said. “I need you to break into the Department of Mysteries. Try to be subtle about it, will you?”

* * *

“Neville,” Hermione said, staring coolly down the sword pointed at her nose. “Really?”  
  
Neville flushed, stumbling backwards into the Room of Requirement and dropping the Sword of Gryffindor. “Um, sorry. It’s just…Harry –“  
  
She raised a hand to silence him and stalked forward. Hermione hissed, “Harry James Potter, what are you doing? Neville is dropping from the ceiling to attack people, Umbridge is prowling the school looking for you, and WHY IS THERE A PHOENIX ON YOUR HEAD?!”  
  
I reached upwards to pat Fawkes, grateful for the invisible glove charm which protected me from his bites. “Yeah, he’s been following me around for a while. I asked Dumbledore, and he said something about migratory patterns. He might think I’m another phoenix or something…Dumbledore wasn’t very clear. He never is.”  
  
“I think he’s trying to build a nest from my hair!” Ginevra chirped, rubbing her bald spot.  
  
I smiled. “Now, Hermione, what’s got you so upset?”  
  
She grabbed her wand, snarling, “I just told you –“  
  
“Well, what was the first thing that upset you?” That’s usually the only one that matters.  
  
Hermione said, “Malfoy tried to arrest me for being your friend, or something like that. Apparently, that’s against one of Umbridge’s new rules.”  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “You escaped?”  
  
“No, I’m secretly Umbridge polyjuiced as Hermione Granger,” she said flatly.  
  
My eyes widened. That’s what I get for trusting Neville with our defense. I raised my wand.  
  
“Sarcasm!” she shouted.  
  
I eyed her suspiciously, peering into her eyes for signs of the Imperius. Atop my skull, Fawkes did the same. “Right, if she used polyjuice, Umbridge would turn into your true, older form.”  
  
“ _Honestly,_ Harry. I am not a spy. I banished Malfoy on top of the lake and came straight here.”  
  
“…They did get more water in that lake, right? Because it’s _really_ deep…” The phoenix trilled in agreement.  
  
Ginevra called from across the room, “The lake’s been full for over a year. You just don’t go outside.”  
  
“And Malfoy can swim?” I inquired.  
  
Hermione pursed her lips. “Well, if he can’t, I imagine he’ll learn.”  
  
I placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hermione, I’m concerned about how emotionally invested you’re getting in this relationship. I…I’m starting to think that you’re not in love with Malfoy, after all.”  
  
Hermione gaped. “Why did you ever think that?”  
  
I hated to ask this question so bluntly, especially considering the possible damage even voicing the possibility could do to her reputation, but I had to be sure. “Is Draco Malfoy your rival?”  
  
She carefully evaded the question, confirming my worst fears. “I just think he’s an awful person.”  
  
“So, that’s a yes. You can do better than that,” I said, despairing. “Malfoy is pathetic. Treating him as any sort of equal reflects poorly on you and everyone you associate with.” Primarily me.  
  
“You’re kidding me,” she said.  
  
“He’s not!” Ginevra cried, causing Fawkes to flap his wings menacingly.  
  
I said, “My rival, for instance, is the Dark Lord Voldemort.”  
  
“He tries to kill you,” Hermione said. “He’s not your rival.”  
  
“Snape then,” I acquiesced. Previously, it was Dumbledore. “You can do better. Maybe Neville.”  
  
Hermione glanced towards Neville, who had once again scaled the wall and was fiercely watching the door. “Harry, I don’t want a rival.”  
  
“If I was in your shoes, I would be doubtful too,” I reassured her. “But Neville is really improving. I think the two of you would be good for each other.”  
  
“No, I seriously don’t want one. Also, I like Neville.” With a panicked look, she hastily added, “He’s my friend.”  
  
I chuckled. “Not a problem. Plenty of people don’t like Neville. You can ask them about it.”  
  
“No. Also, you never did explain why he’s guarding the door,” Hermione said.  
  
I twirled my wand, smirking. “We’re expecting an attack.”  
  
“The twins again?”  
  
“No, not a Weasley this time. Ginevra’s contacts have informed us that we have a leak. One of the Ravenclaws has gone rogue. Umbridge could arrive any minute.”  
  
A minute later, Umbridge stormed through the door, and the phoenix dived forward, talons extended.


	13. Harry Potter vs. Dolores Umbridge (Pt. 3)

It took some time to dislodge Fawkes from Umbridge and clean up the freshly-spilled cauldron of Felix Felicis. The whole process would have gone a lot quicker if the Inquisitorial Squad hadn’t just stood by and laughed. At least our traitor, Edgecomb, had the excuse that she was trying to hide her pimply face.  
  
Umbridge adjusted her badly-shredded robes. “Hem hem.”  
  
“Yes, Professor?” I asked, distracted by the phoenix digging its claws into my shoulder and hissing at Umbridge. Apparently, he liked her.  
  
Umbridge said, “Would you like to explain, Mr. Potter, just what all of this is?”  
  
“We weren’t learning anything in class, so we decided to form a study group. We call it the Defense Against the Dark Arts Study Group for Not Failing Our OWLs. Or the DADASGNF OWLs for short.”  
  
“Most of us call it the DA,” Ginevra chirped.  
  
“Unfortunately, that’s as many letters as they can remember,” I said.  
  
Umbridge smiled tightly. “I suppose I’m not surprised at this behavior from you, Mr. Potter. As I’m _certain_ you know, this subversive organization goes against _several_ of the High Inquisitor’s proclamations.”  
  
“Are you talking about yourself in the third person? I think that’s the first sign of insanity,” I said. I never do that when talking about myself. Or any of my other selves.  
  
She continued, lips pinched, “…nor has it gained my approval…”  
  
“According to school rules, it has,” I interrupted. “As your apprentice and therefore teaching assistant, I am allowed to schedule additional classes for struggling students. Which, due to your complete dearth of talent in the realm of teaching, is all of them.”  
  
Umbridge gave a breathy little sigh. “Mr. Potter, regardless of your _worrying_ delusions, you are not my apprentice.”  
  
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. Hermione?”  
  
Hermione glanced up from her place hunched over the library’s table. “There are actually several passages in the Hogwarts Rulebook which ensure that professors cannot overburden their charges with out-of-class work. This includes writing assignments, such as those served during your detentions.”  
  
“We passed the allowable point for a normal student months ago. In fact, I warned you that, if you gave me one more detention, I would be your apprentice. And then you did that. According to magic, that’s consent.”  
  
“It is!” Ginevra enthusiastically agreed.  
  
“That’s completely ridiculous,” Umbridge hissed. “You can’t just create an apprenticeship without anyone knowing about it.”  
  
“No, of course not,” I said. “That would be silly. However, everyone here hates you because you’re an awful person. I tried to fix that, but, upon consultation with my companions, I have come to the baffling conclusion that you just don’t care. ‘Everyone’ luckily includes Albus Dumbledore, who signed off on my apprenticeship.”  
  
Umbridge giggled, a deeply unsettling sound. “So the headmaster _is_ involved in this illicit –“  
  
I growled in annoyance, Fawkes echoing the noise. “No, it’s me. Entirely me. Dumbledore will not steal my credit for this.”  
  
Ginevra laid a hand on my empty, and therefore less dangerous, shoulder. “Also, it’s technically on the up-and-up, since Harry’s your apprentice, and you haven’t forbidden him from doing anything.”  
  
Umbridge’s eyes gleamed, reminding me uncomfortably of Dumbledore. “In that case, you’re no longer allowed to lead this little group of yours.”  
  
“As my master, you have the right to give me that order,” I acknowledged. “And I have the right to pass on leadership to _my_ apprentice, Neville Longbottom. Neville?”  
  
Neville grinned. “I’d be glad to. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”  
  
I shrugged. “We’ve only got a month left before OWLs. How much damage could you do?”  
  
“An idiot like that,” Malfoy drawled. “You’d be surprised.”  
  
Neville raised his sword menacingly. I gestured for him to stand down. “Don’t worry. He’s only saying that because he’s in love with Hermione.”  
  
Hermione and Malfoy squawked in indignation, then glared at each other for daring to do so at the same moment. Young love: I’ll never understand it.  
  
Umbridge’s face slowly grew pink as we ignored her. She cried, “I’m disbanding this group this instant!”  
  
“You can do that,” I said. “The real question is: Would that be a good decision _for you_?”  
  
After the sixth time, it seemed that Umbridge had finally come to recognize when I’d set a trap for her. She raised her eyebrows. “What, precisely, does that mean?”  
  
“ _You_ are also technically a member of the DADASGNF OWLs. I’m still not entirely sure how Ginevra got your signature, but it’s on the same contract as Edgecomb’s,” I said.  
  
Edgecomb peaked up at us, revealing the word SNEAK written across her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”  
  
I raised a hand to silence her. “Therefore, your betrayal will be met with the same consequences, along with whatever Hermione has added during this conversation…”  
  
“I’m thirteen punishments in, but I’m still working on the loss of magic clause,” Hermione said. Ron handed her another inkwell, and she stopped writing for a moment to smile at him.  
  
“You really expect me to believe that a fifteen-year-old girl managed this?”  
  
“Sixteen,” Ginevra corrected.  
  
“I learned a great deal from the Goblet of Fire. Also, the Ravenclaws helped,” Hermione said. Edgecomb whimpered, burying her face in her hands.  
  
Ron said, “I think she’s done with the squib part.”  
  
Umbridge paled. “I shall not allow –“  
  
“I would be careful about what you say next,” I advised her. “I’m not certain what Hermione’s definition of ‘betrayal’ is, but I have no doubt that the results will be disturbing to us all.”  
  
“She’s bloody scary, sometimes,” Ron said, a goofy grin on his face.  
  
Umbridge finally acknowledged defeat. “How do I get out of it?”  
  
“There’s no way out once your signature is on the contract, since it was signed with your blood,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Of course, it only has so extensive of a range.”  
  
Umbridge’s nose wrinkled as if she’d tasted something sour. “Fine. I’ll leave Hogwarts.”  
  
“Oh, it’s not that small. You’d need to go to the Continent, at least” – Fawkes squawked angrily, and Hermione continued – “Although I might have overpowered it a bit. Staying out of Europe would be safest.”  
  
I smirked. “You should probably go. There’s a clause which allows Hermione to activate the betrayal clause at any time, and she, like Dumbledore, hates you.”  
  
Fawkes accompanied Umbridge on her way out, screeching and scratching all the way.

* * *

After the Inquisitorial Squad departed and Edgecomb returned to the Hospital Wing, there was no longer a need to present a united front.  
  
I shooed Hermione towards the library. “Hermione, I’m your best friend and I support you regardless of who you are, but that would be a lot easier if you would stop lying to yourself and everyone around you.”  
  
Hermione laughed. “I’m presuming this isn’t what it sounds like.”  
  
I sighed. Clearly I was going to have to spell this out for her. “You maimed Edgecomb.”  
  
“It’ll go away when she leaves Hogwarts,” she muttered. “Besides, she deserves it. Bloody sneak.”  
  
“Hermione, they used Veritaserum on her. And they only managed that because she’d gone to the Hospital Wing after Neville tried to use magic again,” I said. His stubbornness would be the death of us all.  
  
Hermione stuttered, “Sh-she what? I mean, I didn’t realize that the contract would have that effect unless the betrayal was willing. I just wanted –“  
  
“Vengeance,” I finished gravely. “You wanted vengeance for an act that hadn’t even been committed yet.”  
  
“I didn’t want people to betray us,” Hermione said.  
  
I shook my head, sighing, “See, that would have made sense if you’d actually told people about the betrayal clause. Then, it would serve as a deterrent. But you didn’t tell anyone. I know; I checked with Ginevra.”  
  
Hermione began sniffling. She always does this, hoping to distract from her misdeeds.  
  
I said, “I think that you didn’t tell anyone because you wanted someone to betray us _just_ so you could hurt them without consequence.”  
  
“You’re wrong. I’ll fix Edgecomb,” Hermione said. “It shouldn’t be too hard to reverse-engineer…”  
  
“No, see, this is the problem. You’re trying to convince everyone that you’re a good person, but you’re just innately malicious. Rather than fight your inner evil, you’re ignoring it. That isn’t healthy.”  
  
Hermione ran away crying, still clinging to her denial.

* * *

Ron waited for Neville to wave him on with his sword before nervously approaching me. “Uh, mate, I was just with Hermione. She seems pretty upset. She says you think she’s evil or something?”  
  
“No,” I said.  
  
He grinned, speaking before I was finished. “Well, that’s a relief ‘cause –“  
  
“I _know_ she’s evil.”  
  
Ron gaped. “Hermione’s not evil. She’s actually pretty nice.”  
  
“She usually curbs her urges,” I said, “and that’s admirable. But she’s getting worse with time. If she keeps denying it, then people are going to get hurt. Important people. People who aren’t Edgecomb.”  
  
“But she follows a lot of rules, way more than us, and she’s really upset when we break them,” Ron said.  
  
I shook my head. “When Hermione does break rules, however, she has no distinction between stupid ones and basic human decency. Remember when she wanted to kidnap and interrogate those Slytherins? Or when she tortured that reporter?”  
  
“…No.”  
  
Clearly, Hermione had already obliviated him, covering up her crimes by erasing all evidence that they’d ever occurred. Of course, she’d been wise enough not to try such tampering with me.  
  
“Well, those things happened. Hermione usually follows the rules because she doesn’t have a moral code.”  
  
“She does! She cares about House Elves and stuff,” Ron said.  
  
I snorted. “Ron, the House Elves don’t care about themselves. They’re perfectly happy where they are, but Hermione is interfering because of some weird Muggle rule against slavery. Someone who understood moral nuance would realize that the most humane thing is to leave them be.”  
  
Ron wrinkled his Weasley face, grumbling, “Are you doing that thing where you say something and then you argue about it and give lots of evidence. Then, later, it turns out you’re just wrong and you made up all the evidence?”  
  
“No. I’m definitely right this time,” I assured him.  
  
Ron seemed very confused and somewhat deflated. I set a hand on his shoulder, motioning Neville to do the same. He used the sword, but that was close enough.  
  
I smiled. “Look, we all have innate parts of our nature that we may only work around. Hermione is evil, you are a Weasley, and I am so good at lying that I sometimes fool myself.”  
  
Ron’s mouth fell open. “You know about that?”  
  
“Well, yeah, people have mentioned it. I can’t cite any specific examples, but I presume it’s happened.”  
  
“Ron’s not a werewolf!” Ginevra shouted.  
  
Right, yes, I had often lied to cover for Ron’s lycanthropy.  
  
I continued, “The point is that Hermione, when not guided by rules, automatically does things that are incredibly cruel without even noticing.”  
  
Ron shook his head. “Right, I should probably go talk to Hermione. She’ll explain why you’re wrong. At least, I hope she will.”  
  
“You shouldn’t think something just because she tells you to,” I said.  
  
Ron should think things because _I_ tell him to.

* * *

The next morning, Hermione still wasn’t speaking to me, stubbornly eating breakfast at the very edge of the Gryffindor table.  
  
“She can’t last for long,” Ginevra assured me. “We’re her only friends. The Ravenclaws are scared of her now, you’ve prejudiced her enough against Hufflepuffs that she’s never gotten to know any, and the only Slytherin she talks to is Malfoy. The social isolation should get to her in a couple of days.”  
  
Ron said, “I wish she would talk to _one_ of us, at least. I didn’t even call her evil, really.”  
  
“She’s talking to me,” Neville muttered into his eggs.  
  
Luna hummed in agreement. “She’s talking to me, too, I think. But she just said that Fudge didn’t have an army of Heliopaths because they don’t exist. So now I’m not talking to her until she or Ron apologizes.”  
  
“Why should I have to apologize?” Ron grumbled.  
  
I sighed, shaking my head. “Eventually, Hermione will realize that we’re doing this for her own good. For now, we’ll simply have to put up with her stubbornness.”  
  
An angry barn owl descended upon our table with the morning rush, clicking its beak at Luna, who smiled and gave it a knut. Ron said, “I thought your Da owned the Quibbler.”  
  
“He does,” Ginevra said as Luna carefully removed the paper from the owl’s claws.  
  
“Then why do you get the Prophet?”  
  
“Most of it isn’t true,” Luna said, “but it’s good for a laugh.”  
  
I nodded. “Right, that makes sense. Also, I’ve been meaning to ask: Why are you at the Gryffindor table?”  
  
“Hermione says that it’s not against any rules” – she glanced at the Prophet – “Oh, it’s about us.”  
  
Ginevra grinned, hopping a little in her seat, and took a swig of pumpkin juice.  
  
Ron grabbed the paper from Luna, revealing the headline: _Umbridge attacks apprentice; flees country; resigns in disgrace._  
  
A very Weasley frown crossed Ron’s face. “Ginny, what did you do?”  
  
“I apologized,” Ginevra said.  
  
“You what?” I said.  
  
“I sent a letter for you to Rita Skeeter, apologizing on the behalf of Dumbledore for lying to us all and Hermione for trying to kill her.”  
  
“Without my permission?”  
  
“Well, I figured that, if it didn’t work, we could always say that I was a minion of one of your political enemies,” she said. “It did, though, so I’m your publicist now! Of course, I did have to make a few concessions to get this article through. You have to do an interview this summer, and Skeeter gets to attend our wedding.”  
  
I glanced up from the paper. “What was that last demand?”  
  
She beamed. “You’ve got an interview.”  
  
“Right,” I muttered. “I can do that.”  
  
Neville whistled, looking at his own edition. “There was a break-in at the Ministry, and it doesn’t even get mentioned until the third page.”  
  
“Apparently, it was a total bloodbath,” one of the other Gryffindors chimed in. “Probably Sirius Black’s fault.”  
  
“Oh, right!” Ginevra said. “I forgot to mention that I also apologized to the Prophet’s editor.”  
  
I frowned. “Huh, I don’t think I’ve done anything to him.”  
  
“He didn’t, either,” she said. “He was really flattered.”

* * *

I stalked about the Malfoy parlor, sneering down at the brunette kneeling on the floor. “Bellatrix, you have once again failed me. Not only were you unable to find the Prophecy, but you were also incredibly unsubtle about your search. Now everyone knows of your mission.”  
  
Bellatrix pouted. “But, my lord, I didn’t leave a single witness.”  
  
“Yes, I’m aware that you killed everyone in the building” – I massaged my brow – “I’m glad you had a nice time, but that is, again, not what I asked you to do. Luckily, you can redeem yourself.”  
  
“I’ll do anything, my lord,” she sighed.  
  
“The old fool is already interviewing for next year’s Defense professor.”  
  
Her eyes shone as I explained my plan.

* * *

“Dumbledore is interviewing for the DADA position,” I said.  
  
Ginevra’s eyes widened. “Really? I didn’t hear about that at all.”  
  
I smirked. “Yes, well, I had a dream about it.”  
  
Down the table, Hermione huffed into her textbook. This was the closest she’d come to talking to me in the past few days, so I considered it progress.  
  
I continued, “I asked Snape this morning, and he assures me that it’s true. I can only assume that the dream was prophetic and that my diligent study of Divination has finally paid off.”  
  
“So you’re gonna go see who the next person who wants to kill us is?” Ron asked.  
  
I stared at him.  
  
He shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Isn’t it?”  
  
Neville frowned. “If Dumbledore hires a professor now, then does that mean that he’ll be gone by _this_ June or this time next year? Or can he go for most of next year, too?”  
  
I shrugged. “Magic is mysterious.”  
  
“While you’re visiting Dumbledore, you should probably get official backing for the DA, too,” Ginevra said. “Now that Umbridge is gone, we don’t have any professor sponsoring us.”  
  
“Technically, I’m still a teaching assistant until Dumbledore hires a new professor,” I said. “I might be able to get something more permanent, though. Ginevra, what’s the current password to Dumbledore’s office?”  
  
Ginevra grinned. “Chocolate Frogs.”

* * *

The blonde witch skipped up the revolving staircase, oblivious to my invisible presence behind her. It was difficult to say if this was the result of her incompetence or my immense skill. Probably both.  
  
I sank to the floor of Dumbledore’s office, leaning against a wall as the witch flounce into a chair with an obnoxious giggle. Claws digging into my shoulder, Fawkes also watched. His beady, black eyes seemed hungry as it darted between Dumbledore and the blonde.  
  
“Oh, I’m so glad to meet you, Headmaster,” the witch gushed.  
  
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Congratulations, Miss Farfelu.”  
  
“Tee-hee,” Farfelu giggled. “Why are you congratulating me?”  
  
Dumbledore clapped his hand together, beaming. “You’re our newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, of course!”  
  
“I…I don’t, tee-hee, understand. I thought this was an interview.”  
  
“I don’t believe that’s necessary, dear girl. You seem perfectly suited to the position.”  
  
Farfelu pouted. “But I’m not sure about taking it. I mean, I haven’t even talked to my husband yet, and he’s wanted the position forever.”  
  
“Tell him to apply next year,” Dumbledore said brightly. “Although, if I recall correctly, your resume mentioned that you were unmarried.”  
  
“I am. He’s…He’s, um, tee-hee…dead.”  
  
Dumbledore nodded. “I see. Encourage him to apply anyway. We have quite a few ghosts on staff, and – as my dear friend Cuthbert Binns always says – being dead is no reason to stop living.”  
  
“I’ll, tee-hee, tell him that,” the blonde murmured. “Still, I’m not sure I’m interested.”  
  
Dumbledore manipulated his features into a crestfallen expression. “I’m very sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid you’ve already agreed.”  
  
Farfelu leapt to her feet, whipping out her wand to point it at Dumbledore’s nose. The old man watched calmly, still smiling.  
  
“What did you do?” Farfelu growled and then, after a short pause, added, “Tee-hee.”  
  
“It was in the contract that you signed earlier, you see.”  
  
The blonde sat down with a huff. “The one that I _had_ to sign to get the interview?”  
  
Dumbledore nodded. “Indeed. I’m afraid it had a clause that you would be the DADA teacher for a full school year, with your continued employment based upon my discretion.”  
  
“But that wasn’t in the contract at all, tee-hee!” she cried.  
  
“It was invisible and written in the margins. But I’m afraid that it _is_ magically binding.”  
  
At that moment, Fawkes darted off my shoulder and out of the invisibility cloak, headed straight for Dumbledore’s face. Dumbledore absentmindedly set up a shield. He turned to his new professor, explaining, “He’s really very fond of me.”  
  
The blonde pushed back her chair with a loud screech, though that only garnered the phoenix’s attention. It gave her a hard stare, then turned back to pecking at Dumbledore’s shield.  
  
“This is all so very sudden,” she said. “I’d hoped to get a tour of the castle first and maybe meet some of my future colleagues.”  
  
“No worries, you can do all of that now that you’ve been hired,” Dumbledore reassured her. “Severus would gladly show you –“  
  
“I don’t suppose you could spare Sybill Trelawney? I’ve been dying to meet her since I was just a girl, you know.”  
  
Farfelu batted her eyes, the gesture sending a familiar shiver down my spine. It was identical to a flirting Bellatrix. I should know. With all the love potions she’s fed me, I’ve spent a cumulative fifteen minutes infatuated with her.  
  
Dumbledore glanced in my direction but said, “Yes, I believe Sybill’s class should be ending shortly. Do you need an escort?”  
  
“Tee-hee! No, I’m fine, thanks.” Farfelu skipped out of Dumbledore’s office and down the revolving staircase.  
  
Dumbledore turned his attention towards my corner of the room, quirking an eyebrow. “Mr. Potter, don’t you have Potions at this time?”  
  
I whipped off the cloak, grumbling, “I don’t know why I should attend if Snape doesn’t.”  
  
“He is covering for Umbridge’s Defense classes and cannot attend,” Dumbledore said.  
  
“I offered to take over the class,” I said. “Permanently, if possible.”  
  
“I applaud your ambition, but I cannot hire a professor who has yet to take his OWLs.”  
  
I stood up and approached his desk. “I’ll have taken my OWLs by the time next term starts.”  
  
“I would prefer it if you took your NEWTs as well,” Dumbledore said, obviously devising requirements solely to keep me from my dream. “Also, I’ve already chosen a professor for next term.”  
  
I frowned. “Oh, come on, she’s obviously a Death Eater.”  
  
“Why would you think that?” Dumbledore had to raise his voice over Fawkes’s increasingly furious attacks on his shield.  
  
“Well, you hired her, for a start,” I said. “You always hire Death Eaters: Quirrel, Moody, Hagrid, Lupin –“  
  
Dumbledore said, “Professor Lupin was not a Death Eater.”  
  
I snorted. “Werewolf Rights was a founding principle of the Death Eaters. All the werewolves worked for Voldemort.”  
  
“I can assure you that Professor Lupin worked for me.”  
  
“He was probably a spy then,” I said.  
  
In fact, I’m pretty sure he was. I had plenty of spies in the Order of the Phoenix.  
  
“And you ignored my Light professors, such as Gilderoy Lockhart,” Dumbledore said.  
  
I stared at him gravely, and even the phoenix slowed its assault. “I think we both know that there won’t be any more Lockharts. He was the bravest man I ever knew.”  
  
Dumbledore sighed, smoothing down his magenta robes. “Nevertheless, I suspect that Professor Farfelu will be a wonderful teacher and may even be willing to continue your apprenticeship –“  
  
There was a whoosh of green flame from Dumbledore’s fireplace, and Severus’s enormous head dourly regarded us. “Headmaster, it appears that Farfelu has abducted your Divination professor and fled the castle.”  
  
Dumbledore paused for a moment. “You’re certain that someone else did not abduct both of them?”  
  
Severus raised an eyebrow. “I presume you’re going to fire her.”  
  
“I suppose that would be wise…Yes, I believe I will.” Dumbledore stroked his beard to comfort himself.  
  
Severus climbed out of the fireplace, the soot hidden by his black robes. “I suspected this would happen. I didn’t warn you because I didn’t actually expect you to hire her. After all, she was _obviously_ a Death Eater.”  
  
“See?” I said. “Even Snape agrees with me, and he would know: He’s a Death Eater, too.”  
  
Severus snorted. “She tried to curse a student for walking beside her, and she bears an uncanny resemblance to Bellatrix Lestrange.”  
  
“To be fair,” I said. “Most wizards are related. They could just be cousins or something.”  
  
“Also, her only reference was Lucius Malfoy,” he continued.  
  
“He was quite complimentary,” Dumbledore said.  
  
Severus watched Dumbledore with a calculating glint in his eyes. “Since I am now the only applicant –“  
  
“I applied,” I said.  
  
“The _only_ applicant…” Severus ground out. “I presume that you will finally allow me to assume my desired position?”  
  
Dumbledore said, “Well, I suppose. I don’t know where I’ll get another Potions professor, though. There aren’t many Potions Masters around, these days.”  
  
There was no danger of Severus breaking the curse because he was a terrible teacher. Still, I refused to admit defeat. “I could teach Potions.”  
  
“Potter, you’re failing the class,” Severus drawled.  
  
“Right, and that’s not your fault _at all_ ,” I said.  
  
“You still haven’t taken your OWLs,” Dumbledore reminded me.  
  
“Fine,” I spat. “Divination, then. I’m great at Divination. I saw _all_ of this coming.”

* * *

“…and then they just kicked me out without even listening to what I had to say. For all they knew, I could have given a prophecy that said how to defeat the Dark Lord, but I wasn’t going to tell them because they were total gits…Hermione? You’re not being a very good friend right now. You’ve got the listening part right, I suppose, but you haven’t tried to comfort me at all…I’ve been talking for ten minutes.”  
  
It would be a lot easier to have this conversation if she hadn’t barricaded herself inside Myrtle’s loo. Hermione’s muffled voice called, “Go away, Harry.”  
  
“See, you’re talking now, but you’re also being unnecessarily cruel.”  
  
Hermione groaned.  
  
I said, “Oh, you’re still upset about the ‘evil’ thing. It’s been over a week. I assumed you’d gotten over that by now…Hey! I know something that’ll cheer you up: Voldemort kidnapped Trelawney!”  
  
“Why would that make me happy? I’m _not evil_.”  
  
I idly twirled my wand between my fingers, grinning. “No, you’re not thinking this through. Voldemort captured her because she’s a seer. He doesn’t know her like we do. He thinks she’s good. He’ll listen to _everything_ she says.”  
  
More silence. I thought, perhaps wishfully, that it was a thoughtful one. “Remember what happened during my third Divination class? It’ll be a lot like that, but Voldemort won’t be throwing stunners. I figure he’ll take out half his ranks in a week.”  
  
I had to strain to hear Hermione through the door. “Harry, why do you think that Voldemort wants Trelawney because she’s a seer? Why do you think he’ll listen to her at all?”  
  
“I had a dream about it.”  
  
She snorted derisively. “Honestly, Harry, you can’t assume something just because…Wait, did this dream happen before or after Trelawney was kidnapped?”  
  
“A few days before,” I said.  
  
Hermione hummed, and I could hear her getting to her feet. “This dream involved Voldemort?”  
  
“Yeah. Most of my dreams do,” I said.  
  
She spoke slowly. “In these dreams, are you an invisible observer or –“  
  
“No, I’m very involved. Actually, come to think of it, I might be Voldemort” – after a moment, I clarified – “in those dreams.”  
  
I could hear Hermione’s building excitement. “And this is new, isn’t it? Just the last year or so?”  
  
“They’re a lot more vivid,” I admitted.  
  
The door swung open, then, and Hermione emerged with a Cheshire-cat grin. She hurried past me, shouting, “I’ll be in the library!”  
  
I smirked. I knew the Trelawney thing would cheer her up.

* * *

The Room of Requirement was quiet with only Neville, Ginevra, Ron, and I inside. There was no gaggle of practicing students, no Hermione making lesson plans, and the latest Felix Felicis brewing disaster had been mopped up a few hours earlier. Even Fawkes had returned to Dumbledore, content to watch and periodically attack him. The room darkened to match our somber mood.  
  
“The last DA meeting,” Ginevra sighed. “It’s been a good run.”  
  
Neville said, “We can always do it again next year.”  
  
Ginevra giggled. “Maybe we won’t have to. Our new Defense professor might actually be good!”  
  
We all burst out into laughter, of which mine was the loudest and longest-lasting. The Room of Requirement’s walls shivered merrily along with us, and we watched it fondly.  
  
Ron said, “It’s kinda pathetic that it’s just us here. We could have gotten a bunch more people to come if Hermione had let me get Firewhiskey from the twins.”  
  
Ginevra sent a Stinging Hex towards Ron. Neville was technically in the way, but he automatically twisted to avoid it. Ron glared at the younger Weasley. “What was that for?”  
  
The redhead beamed. “Hermione isn’t here, so I’m covering for her.”  
  
Neville smiled, ducking his head slightly as if to hide it. “It’s funny. Before, she wasn’t talking to you guys because you called her evil. Now, she’s not talking to anyone because she’s in the middle of another project.”  
  
“Everything’s back to normal, then,” I said happily. “Except that Umbridge is gone. So it’s better.”  
  
Ginevra said, “Can you believe we actually saved her life?”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“Well, all the Defense professors either die or leave. We made sure that she left, so that means that she didn’t die,” she explained.  
  
Neville’s face darkened. “She probably would have died in the Bellatrix Lestrange attack.”  
  
That incident had actually been pretty tame for Bellatrix. Only three students were sent to the Hospital Wing.  
  
Ron grinned. “Heh. I guess we beat the curse, then.”  
  
A dreamy voice spoke from behind us. “Actually, we _were_ the curse.”  
  
“Luna!” I cried. “How have you been?”  
  
“Thinking,” Luna said. “I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out your secret.”  
  
I laughed condescendingly but quickly erected a Silencing Charm. Obliviating one person is difficult enough. I didn’t need to add Neville and his insane dodging abilities into the mix. “Go on, then.”  
  
Luna took a deep breath before saying, “When you were a little baby, did Voldemort accidentally put part of his soul in you, causing both of your souls to merge, so that you have all of his memories and will never acknowledge that you’re not the same person because it’s too central to your self-image?”  
  
I blinked in shock, unable to properly address the pure insanity that is Luna Lovegood. “I…no! Why would you ever think that?”  
  
“Well, it’s just that you talk about doing terrible things a lot, but then you rarely do.”  
  
“You’re wrong again,” I said.  
  
Luna pouted, crossing her arms. “I give up, then.”  
  
I sighed. If I didn’t give her some sort of explanation, she might think up something closer to the truth. Or, worse, talk to Hermione about it. “Why can’t I just be an eccentric genius, who is otherwise perfectly normal?”  
  
She hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose you could be, but that doesn’t seem very narratively satisfying.”  
  
“Luna, this isn’t a story,” I said.  
  
Luna said, “Oh. Right. I forget sometimes.”  
  
Chuckling, I slung an arm around her shoulders and canceled the Silencing Charm. The others were waiting by the door, and the dummies waved goodbye as we closed it behind us. With that, our end-of-the-year meeting of the DADASGNF OWLs came to a close.

* * *

I waved one of Dobby’s cakes in front of my best minion, careful to keep it hidden from Pince’s suspicious gaze. The frizzy hair parted to reveal a sniffing nose, then wide, dark rimmed eyes. Hermione Granger looked like something from the Forbidden Forest.  
  
“Hermione,” I said. “You still understand English, right?”  
  
Hermione eyes brightened, and she indignantly said, “Of course I understand English!”  
  
“Good, I’d begun to fear you’d gone feral,” I said.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes, breaking a chunk of cake from the slice in front of her. She dropped it onto her tongue with a blissful sigh. I frowned. “Have you eaten at all in the past few days?”  
  
“Of course,” she said.  
  
“Really? Are you sure you haven’t forgotten? Because that seems like something you would do. You’ve either been here or taking your OWLs for the past week, and I haven’t seen you in the Great Hall…”  
  
Hermione smiled. “Careful there, Harry, I might start to think you cared.”  
  
“Oh, thank you for the warning,” I said. I wouldn’t want to give her a false impression, after all. Honesty is very important in a master/minion relationship.  
  
“Really, though, I have eaten. The House Elves have been sneaking in food after hours.”  
  
“…and you’ve been sleeping here. Yes, I’m aware” – I waved off her explanations – “I admire your dedication to never leaving the library. I have similar feelings about Hogwarts. But I do need my invisibility cloak back.”  
  
Hermione rifled through her bag in search of the starry fabric. “Any particular reason?”  
  
“Primarily that it’s mine,” I said.  
  
“…Right,” she murmured, handing it to me.  
  
Hermione turned back to her open book, rapidly flipping pages. I glanced around the nearly-abandoned library and said, “The Leaving Feast is starting soon. I presume you’re coming?”  
  
“Can’t. Madame Pince doesn’t loan out library books this late in the year.”  
  
I scowled. “You have to come! It’s the last feast of the year.”  
  
“Yes, that is what ‘Leaving Feast’ means.” Hermione flipped another page.  
  
“All of our friends are going to be there.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
I said, “I’m giving a speech.”  
  
Hermione ignored me.  
  
“If you don’t put down the book and come with me, I’ll tell Pince that you’ve been eating in the library.”  
  
Her head jerked up in horror. “But, Harry –“  
  
“So that’s a yes then?”  
  
“But I haven’t figured out what’s wrong with you,” she whined.  
  
“People have been trying to figure that one out for decades,” I said. “You’re not going to manage it in one night.”  
  
“But, your visions –“  
  
“Can remain a mystery until September,” I said. “Unless you want me to plant crumbs between some of the books’ pages?”  
  
With a pout, Hermione shut the tome. “You’re evil.”  
  
I smirked. “Well, that makes two of us, then.”  
  
She chased me across the castle, hexing all the way. Still, they were only mildly painful, and we ended our flight in the Great Hall.

* * *

Dumbledore was finishing his end of term speech when Hermione and I arrived.  
  
“Before we fill our bellies, Harry Potter would like to say a few words.”  
  
I nodded towards Dumbledore and strode to the front of the room. Smiling at the crowd’s uneasy murmuring, I said, “Hello, fellow students. As you all know, Umbridge apprenticed me earlier in the school year. Since she has fled the continent, that leaves me in charge of her former duties. I’ve already gotten rid of the educational decrees…”  
  
The students cheered.  
  
“…and reinstated Professor Snape…”  
  
A few groans responded to that statement. I had been reluctant to rehire the man, but, though there were many legitimate reasons to fire him, being a werewolf was not one of them.  
  
“Now, it has come time to destroy the last of Umbridge’s unwelcome additions to this school” – in the crowd, Draco Malfoy scowled – “I would like to officially disband the Inquisitorial Squad.”  
  
The silver I’s on the members’ robes poofed away in a cloud of smoke while the rest of the school celebrated.  
  
“I have more to say,” I said. “You see, I have a few last-minute points to announce…”  
  
Albus Dumbledore had set a dangerous precedent.  
  
“…Some students decided to go above and beyond the requirements of their professors. When faced with a terrible teacher, they chose to learn outside of the classroom. Under the tutelage of me, Harry Potter, they have learned much and are likely the only students who didn’t fail their OWLs this year. As such, I would like to award a hundred points to each student who participated in my study group.”  
  
The Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor hourglasses filled with gems. I smirked. “I believe this calls for a change of decorations. Congratulations, Ravenclaw!”  
  
With a flick of my wand, the room turned bronze and blue. There was cheering at all four tables. Presumably, this is because the Slytherins knew exactly what we were going to do to them after they won. Of course, the Weasley twins were conspicuously absent from the Gryffindor table, so the Slytherins’ relief would be short-lived.  
  
I cleared my throat. “One last thing.”  
  
The Hall immediately quieted down as I turned to the Slytherin table.  
  
“ _That_ , Draco, is how you cheat.”

* * *

“Is this place any safer, Madame Trelawney?” I asked, pacing the length of our latest headquarters. This only took about thirty seconds, and I stepped on no less than three followers along the way.  
  
Trelawney raised a hand to her cheek. “Oh, it is difficult, you know, to call upon the whispers of fate. She is a fickle thing.”  
  
Lucius anxiously looked out the window. “My lord, I don’t think that this location is particularly safe.”  
  
I waved away his concerns. “Nonsense. Our oracle will inform us of any danger.”  
  
He said, “My home has far greater protections. If we had remained there –“  
  
“We all would have died. Trelawney saw the Grim in her teacup. We’ve been over this.”  
  
Trelawney danced around my followers, who lounged on the floor, and placed her crystal ball on a roughly-constructed, wooden table. She peered into its depths, humming thoughtfully. We leaned forward, awaiting her visions.  
  
Her voice was high and breathy. “Yes. Yes, this shall do…”  
  
Bellatrix dove for the only bed, hissing and hexing until everyone else had scrambled to the floor. Nagini had formed some sort of nest in the fireplace. Lucius summoned a House Elf to “make the place livable.” Hagrid watched, bemused, from a gargantuan chair.  
  
Trelawney’s eyes were round and wide behind her glasses. She whispered, “At least, for now.”  
  
Groaning, my Death Eaters settled in for a night at Hagrid’s hut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Harry asserts that Remus, a werewolf, must be a Death Eater. One might assume that this is because Harry is insane (a not unreasonable assumption and one well worth keeping in mind for future events). However, it’s worth noting that the Order of the Phoenix made this exact same assumption in canon.
> 
> I assume it went something like this:
> 
> “Hey, guys, I hear we’ve got a spy!”
> 
> “That’s incredibly dangerous to us all. We’d better use Veritaserum or Legilimency to find out who they are so that we can stop future, traitorous deeds.”
> 
> “Yeah, I guess we could do that. Or we could just stop telling Remus things.”
> 
> “That is a sound and perfectly reasonable plan. How could it ever go wrong?”
> 
> ...and then the plot of Harry Potter happened. Whoops.


	14. Chapter 8: Harry Potter vs. Love (Pt. 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter exemplifies a reoccurring theme in Seventh Horcrux: 
> 
> People who aren’t as sneaky as they think they are but are getting away with it anyway.

Pushing through the late August crowd of students and their families, I made my way into the Leaky Cauldron. With a nod to Tom, I headed upstairs to one of its private rooms.  
  
“Harry!” Ginevra tried to tackle me with a hug, but, thankfully, I got a shield up just in time. I edged around her, greeting Rita Skeeter as I settled into a chair.  
  
The reporter smiled a shark-like grin, and, with a snap of her fingers, her Quick Quotes Quill started scribbling on the sheet beside her. “Good to see you. I was starting to wonder if I ever would. Your stunning, young –“  
  
“Publicist,” Ginevra said helpfully.  
  
Skeeter’s smile widened. “ _…publicist_ has been putting me off for months. So tell me, Harry, just where have you been all summer? The wizarding public is dying to know.”  
  
I said, “I’ve been living in a magically-expanded trunk.”  
  
Rita Skeeter gasped, and even her quill paused. “Oh, I wouldn’t keep doing that. My coworker’s father owned one of those. The charms broke when he was inside, and they had to bury him in it. Two-hundred people attended the funeral, social event of the season. I, of course, reported.”  
  
“I found another downside last June,” I said.  
  
Skeeter leaned forward eagerly, saying, “Really? Go on, don’t keep us in suspense.”  
  
“Hermione mailed me to France. At least, I think it was France. Do they speak French anywhere else?”  
  
Skeeter tapped her chin with a sharp, red-painted fingernail. “Well, there’s Canada.”  
  
“No, that doesn’t seem right,” I muttered.  
  
“Some parts of Africa, too,” Ginevra said.  
  
“That might have been it,” I said. “Anyway, I tried to get back to Britain by crossing the nearest body of water, but that just put me in Asia. So, now, I’ve been to all seven continents…At least, presuming that was Africa, and I’ve made a lot of friends who I never intend to see again. But the weird part is that I don’t feel like I’ve learned anything.”  
  
“Not _every_ adventure has a moral lesson. Just the best ones,” Ginevra said.  
  
I shook my head. “No, I mean: I didn’t learn _anything_. I didn’t learn the Oriental mystic arts or any new languages. And I still don’t know what the Americans do. This trip was completely pointless.”  
  
We all spent a moment contemplating that much of our lifetime is taken up by useless and often futile endeavors. At least, that’s what I was thinking about. I don’t know about Ginevra and Skeeter.  
  
Skeeter broke the silence. “Why exactly do you think that Hermione Granger shipped you abroad? Was it a lover’s spat? A shocking and unprovoked attack upon Wizarding Britain’s savior? A clear sign of her growing mental instability?”

* * *

“That went really well,” Ginevra enthused, nearly bouncing in her seat. “I think Skeeter likes you. I didn’t even know she could do that!”  
  
I smirked. “Of course. After all, I am a charming, adventurous, brilliant, yet completely normal Hogwarts student. What’s not to like?”  
  
She gave me a goofy smile, staring at my face for altogether too long. I said, “You can leave now.”  
  
Ginevra jumped a bit, cheeks reddened in embarrassment. “Okay. Dumbledore should be picking you up in twenty minutes.”  
  
This was the first time I’d heard of such a thing. What was the old man trying to pull now?  
  
“He isn’t trying to pull anything, I don’t think,” Ginevra said. “Apparently, he needs you to help him. Something about the Potions professorship.”  
  
“He’s actually hiring me?” I did do pretty well on my OWLs.  
  
Ginevra shook her head. “No, he specifically mentioned that you weren’t getting a teaching post. He said it like six times.”  
  
“When did this happen?” I asked.  
  
“July. I sent you an owl.”  
  
“I probably would have been in Antarctica, at the time,” I muttered. “Did the owl ever come back?”

* * *

Dumbledore and I strolled into Slughorn’s home. It was torn apart, with spell gouges in the walls, burn marks on the ceiling, and a fair bit of blood by the door. A bit like the Gryffindor common room, come to think of it.  
  
Slughorn was in the corner, pretending to be a chair. He used to do that all the time when I was in school. Apparently, he got in trouble for it. I can’t imagine why; everyone thought it was funny.  
  
“Horace,” Dumbledore said. “I know it’s you. You haven’t changed the pattern on the upholstery in fifty years.”  
  
Slughorn transformed back into himself, though he took up nearly as much space as the armchair had. “Ah, Albus. Good to see you, good to see you.”  
  
“You as well,” he said. “And may I introduce young Harry Potter?”  
  
Slughorn’s eyes lit up, and he grabbed my hand in both his. “Wonderful meeting you, Mr. Potter. I’ve heard you like Quidditch. I happen to be personally acquainted with a Puddlemere United Chaser. Perhaps you would like to meet him?”  
  
“I may be interested, in the future. I’m very busy, you know.”  
  
“Of course, of course,” he chuckled. “Defeating Dark Lords and all that. Now, if that will be all, I really must be going.”  
  
Dumbledore looked around the ruined home. “I’m afraid I rarely have time for social visits lately. I’m here to offer you your old position. There’s no place safer than Hogwarts –“  
  
“Tell that to the Perks girl,” I muttered.  
  
“–and you’re clearly in hiding from Voldemort.”  
  
Slughorn chortled. “Yes, well, you see…I’m actually not. I was hiding from you. An old acquaintance of mine mentioned in passing that you might be paying me this visit.”  
  
Dumbledore heaved a heavy sigh, as if he actually felt bad about manipulating everyone around him. “I am terribly sorry to interrupt your retirement, but I’m afraid we’re desperate. If you don’t take the post, Harry Potter will. And he’s not allowed in the Potions room unsupervised.”  
  
“To be fair,” I said, “no one died, and _I_ was the one who reconstructed the floor.”  
  
Slughorn frowned, shifting his great weight from foot to foot. “Won’t the Ministry give you someone, if no one else applies?”  
  
“I think I would prefer Harry,” Dumbledore admitted. “Our last replacement was less than exemplary.”  
  
“Yes, I remember hearing about that. Umbridge was such a sweet, little Hufflepuff when I taught her. Never would have imagined she’d attack the Boy-Who-Lived. Of course, the Boy-Who-Lived wasn’t born then, so I suppose that’s a reasonable oversight.”  
  
Slughorn chuckled to himself, ending in a nervous cough upon realizing that no one had joined him. “Surely there’s someone else who can take the post…”  
  
Dumbledore sighed. “I fear that young people nowadays just don’t have the patience for potions. Hogwarts hasn’t graduated a Potions Master in over a decade.”  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Can’t imagine why.”  
  
Dumbledore set a hand on Slughorn’s shoulder. “Horace, do not force me to hire Harry Potter.”  
  
“I’m looking forward to being the Head of Slytherin,” I said.  
  
“That isn’t a requirement,” Dumbledore assured him. “Severus is still on staff.”  
  
Huh. I assumed it was position-based. Why else would the Potions classroom be in the dungeons, even though it lacks a proper ventilation system and most of the fumes end up in the Slytherin common room?  
  
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled with…Were those tears? “You are our last hope.”  
  
It seemed that I would not be on staff for the coming school year.

* * *

Hermione Granger stormed into my train car.  
  
“I did not mail you to Algeria!” she shouted.  
  
Well, that was quite the hello. “Really? Then who did, Hermione?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Hermione said.  
  
“I’m certain that we’ve established your knowledge of everything.”  
  
“Nobody knows everything, Harry.”  
  
I raised an eyebrow, and, with a huff, Hermione said, “Fine. You’ve been brewing several volatile potions in an enclosed space without proper ventilation. Maybe they combined oddly. Or maybe you sent yourself there with accidental magic. Or maybe your Felix Felicis attempts are finally coming to fruition, leaving you with horrible luck. Or maybe the charms on your trunk broke and this whole thing is a dying dream!”  
  
“That last one doesn’t seem very likely,” I said.  
  
Hermione’s shoulders slumped, no doubt downtrodden by my criticism, and she buried her face in her hands. She trembled with laughter, finally gasping, “Honestly, Harry, you meet with Rita for an hour and somehow end up with two pages on how awful I am. How does that even happen?”  
  
“It arose organically,” I said. Hermione’s growing evil is a topic of shared interest between myself and Skeeter, since I am the girl’s best friend and she is an ongoing victim.  
  
Hermione shook her head, still giggling. “Right, fine. Apparently Skeeter has decided that slandering me is okay as long as it’s a direct quote. The other page is about your love life, by the way, and I don’t even think you _have_ one of those.”  
  
I settled back onto my seat. “After I defeated that dark lord in Albania, I might have been engaged to a nobleman’s daughter. Or he might have been yelling at me because that dark lord was one of the good ones. I’m not sure. I never learned the language.”  
  
Ginevra walked in, flanked by Ron. “You probably shouldn’t go to that country for a while, just to be on the safe side.”  
  
“I dunno about that. Is she a good-looking bird?” Ron asked. Hermione and Ginevra both leaned over to smack his arm, although Ginevra then apologized to her for the presumption.  
  
Hermione smiled and asked, “How was your summer, Ginny?”  
  
“Great! I think I’ve finally found the family Dark Magic!”  
  
Ron gaped. “WHAT?!”  
  
I beamed. “I always knew the Weasleys were hiding something.”  
  
“Well, it isn’t the Weasley stuff, actually. I’m still working on that,” Ginevra demurred. “But I did find out the Prewett Dark Magic.”  
  
“ _When_?” Ron asked.  
  
“Mum and I were in the kitchen” – she smiled pityingly at her older brother – “You shouldn’t feel bad about it. I’m pretty sure it’s only passed on to daughters.”  
  
“Ginevra, focus!” I snapped.  
  
She nodded, and, cruelly drawing out her words, said, “It’s a love potion.”  
  
“Oh.” I felt rather disappointed.  
  
Ron seemed caught between relief that he hadn’t missed out on any great inheritance and misery that his family had once again failed to do anything impressive. “Well, is it any good?”  
  
“I think so,” Ginevra said, “Mum dosed Dad when they were in school, and he’s still in love with her.”

* * *

“You do realize that we’re missing the Start-of-Term Feast, right?” I said. “I mean, I know that you love the library, but this is getting ridiculous. It’ll still be here in the morning.”  
  
Hermione’s voice drifted out of the stacks. “Oh, hush.”  
  
Finally, with a triumphant cry (which she hurriedly quieted), she emerged with an open book resting in her hands. “I’ve developed a theory for what’s going on with your dreams.”  
  
“You mean outside of the fact that I’m a seer?” I asked, lounging against the bookcase.  
  
Hermione set down her book with a thud. “I suspect that you have some sort of magical connection with Voldemort. Presumably, this is centered around your scar or the use of your blood during the Unum Corpus ritual –“  
  
“The what?”  
  
“The ritual Voldemort used to revive himself,” Hermione said. “I looked it up over the summer. It’s not Dark Magic.”  
  
I frowned. “Wait, do you mean that it’s not that obscure, or that it’s not evil. Because I’m never sure if you’re using the correct definition or not nowadays –“  
  
Hermione pursed her lips, snapping, “Harry. Not the time. Anyway, you clearly have some sort of magical bond. Well, either that or you’re soul mates. But, if that were the case, the distance and hostility almost certainly would have killed you both by now. Regardless, I’ve figured out how to deal with the situation…”  
  
She flipped the book around and jabbed its title with her finger. “Occlumency.”  
  
“I’m afraid that’s not going to work for me.”  
  
She blinked. “What?”  
  
“I’m just not any good at it. You’re supposed to clear your mind and stop having emotions. But I’m always thinking because I’m a genius, and I sometimes have these sudden and inexplicable flashes of rage.”  
  
I’d tried to get Severus to train me with Occlumency, prior to my time as Harry Potter. I didn’t realize, then, how bad he was at teaching.  
  
Hermione leaned against a bookcase, looking rather pale. “But I spent the whole summer learning the techniques. I’ve been preparing lesson plans…”  
  
I shrugged. “You probably should have asked me first.”  
  
She grabbed her wand from her pocket, shaking it at me. “You were in Algeria!”  
  
“Well, not all the time. I was in Russia for a while. That isn’t particularly far, I don’t think.”  
  
She shook her head. “You _should_ learn Occlumency, though. It protects your mind from foreign intrusion, and these visions are bound to get worse with time.”  
  
I chuckled. “I’ll be _fine_.”  
  
Hermione glared into my eyes and, with a determined tilt of the chin, said, “Legilimens.”  
  
A moment later, we were roused from our mental match when Hermione’s wand fell, with a clatter, to the floor. She grabbed her eyes, hissing in pain. I dove for her wand before following suit.  
  
“For Merlin’s sake, Hermione, why did you do that?!” I shouted. Thankfully, Pince was downstairs, feasting with everyone else.  
  
“I wanted to prove how serious the situation was,” she said. “What did you do, anyway?”  
  
“Ah, yes. I neglected to mention that, while I’m ill-suited for Occlumency, I have the single-minded attitude, nosiness and disregard for others’ privacy that are essential to a Legilimens. Therefore, when someone uses Legilimency on me, I use Legilimency back on them, but harder.”  
  
I waited for comprehension to dawn in her eyes, but they remained as dull as a Weasley’s. Sighing, I continued, “I am reading your mind, while you are reading me reading your mind. You’re technically reading your own mind, so you think you’re just thinking. Then, you try to read my mind. It all goes in a loop until you either notice the problem or are forced to break eye contact for some other reason.”  
  
“Wait, was _that_ what you guys were doing?” Ron asked. “I just thought you were having the most brilliant staring contest ever.”  
  
Hermione sputtered, “R-Ron? When did you get here?”  
  
The redhead contorted his face into something resembling thoughtfulness. “An hour ago, I guess?”  
  
“We arrived at 10:24 if you want to be precise about it,” Ginevra said. “The Feast ended ages ago, so we borrowed the cloak from Harry’s trunk and went looking for you.”  
  
Well, that explained our pained eyes. Hermione sighed. “Three hours and we still haven’t figured out how to stop your dreams.”  
  
“Wait. Where did you get the idea that I wanted them to stop?”  
  
Hermione held out her hand for her wand, which I reluctantly returned. “Well, I presumed you wouldn’t want to see whatever atrocities Voldemort gets up to in his spare time.”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve seen anything that bad yet,” I said. “The Death Eaters spend most of their time squabbling about who gets the bed or who is Voldemort’s most loyal servant or who Nagini is allowed to eat. Besides, they give me all sorts of useful information.”  
  
Hermione frowned. “But Voldemort could show you something specific, to trick you, and then you might act right into his hand.”  
  
“Hermione, that’s deviously brilliant,” I said.  
  
Hermione breathed a soft sigh, no doubt thrilled that her plan had gone over so well. “Then you understand why you need to protect your mind from –“  
  
“We should do that!”

* * *

Lucius looked miserable in the old Black manor, tearing at his hair with his silver hand. Several House Elves were scuttling around him, lifting his robes so that they avoided the grimy floors and leaving a trail of polish and shine in their wake.  
  
The blond muttered, “Disgusting. At least Hagrid’s wasn’t booby-trapped…”  
  
Nagini had similarly chosen to escape the filth by hiding beneath my robes. She poked her head outside to announce, _“I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten in days.”_  
  
Right, yes. This is why I’d never kept a pet when I was in school. I mean, I haven’t fed the Basilisk in…Actually, I don’t think I ever fed the Basilisk. I should do something about that when I conquer Wizarding Britain.  
  
I stroked Nagini’s head, smiling fondly upon her. _“Maybe, if you stop trying to devour Sirius every time he turns into a grim, he’ll feed you his House Elf.”_  
  
Kreacher was a wretched thing and unable to properly perform its housecleaning duties. Insane, too, if its insistence that Sirius Black was a blood traitor was anything to go by.  
  
Of course, that might have been the result of its unfortunate former owner.  
  
Sirius, Severus, and Hagrid approached us from another room. Those three were very close, presumably having bonded over their shared occupation as spies. When the deceased Madame Black’s portrait started screeching, the trio agreed to use their charm and cunning to explain our position.  
  
Sirius grinned, giving a jaunty wave to our assembled group. Nagini tasted the air at his entrance but stilled at my stern look.  
  
“The old bat’ll shut up for a while. We’ll be better off if you talk to her though” – Severus elbowed him in the ribs, and Sirius smoothly added – “My lord.”  
  
“I can do that,” I said. “Have you discovered what got her so upset?”  
  
Severus said, “Since Black was so _deeply_ undercover, his mother was under the false impression that he was a blood traitor.”  
  
I chuckled. “I see. How incredibly embarrassing for her. After all, you are my right hand man.”  
  
“Yes,” Severus said in his usual, flat tone. “Madame Black now understands that and is very apologetic.”  
  
Sirius gave a barking laugh. “We can still take down the wall if you’d like, m’lord. Air the place out.”  
  
Severus sent a stinging hex at him, and Sirius – turning into a giant, black dog – tackled him to the floor. We watched, amused at their antics.  
  
The two inner circle members had a rather tumultuous relationship. One moment, they were throwing curses and shouting obscenities. The next, they were whispering in each other’s ears and sneaking off to a private corner of Hagrid’s hut.  
  
Young love: I would never understand it.  
  
I wandered into the kitchen, Lucius trailing behind me like a proper minion. There, Trelawney was comfortably ensconced at a little table. She seemed happily oblivious to the dust powdering the air and settling in her teacup.  
  
Lucius was evidently horrified.  
  
“Have you had any new premonitions?” I asked the prophetess.  
  
“It is difficult,” Trelawney whispered.  
  
“We can always return to my manor,” Lucius said.  
  
“So very difficult to see…”  
  
He looked at me beseechingly. “My beautiful, _clean_ manor.”  
  
Trelawney’s head snapped up, and she peered at us through dust-caked glasses. “Have you prepared me a room, someplace where I might rest my third eye?”  
  
“Of course,” I said. “You can have the whole third floor, if you like.”  
  
Trelawney beamed, dropping the teacup in her excitement. “I have seen it…YES! This shall be a most fortunate place for us.”  
  
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I said.  
  
Trelawney said, “You have the Gift, I dare say, or are at least wise enough to understand a true prediction when you hear one.”  
  
I gave her a thin, pleased smile. Of course, Nagini’s decision to emerge from my robes and curl around my neck at that moment lent a somewhat unsettling effect to the gesture.  
  
I told the snake, _“We’ll be staying here from now on.”_  
  
She squeezed my neck to demonstrate her displeasure. _“I cannot hunt unicorns here.”_  
  
I winced, tugging her free to set her on the floor. _“You’ve been killing unicorns?!”_  
  
 _“I would like to,”_ Nagini admitted, _“but I haven’t found one yet.”_  
  
 _“Oh. That’s alright then.”_  
  
 _“And there were so many tasty creatures in the Forest…”_ she hissed wistfully.  
  
I scowled down at her. _“I’m not going to starve you.”_  
  
 _“Then this will be a good nest,”_ Nagini decided, slithering towards the drawing room. _“It’s dark, and it smells like you.”_  
  
I heard a distant explosion, and the portrait began wailing again. With a nod towards Trelawney, I left to deal with Severus and Sirius’s latest lover’s spat.

* * *

Dumbledore had sent a summons, expecting me to walk right into his grasp. But I was not such a fool. I crept invisibly into Dumbledore’s office, wand ready, and surveyed the environment in a way that would make Moody proud. Then, I exclaimed, “What is wrong with your hand?!”  
  
Dumbledore smiled and waved with his blackened, shriveled hand. “Ah, Harry. I had forgotten that you missed the Welcome Feast. I’m afraid that I’ve contracted an illness that has negatively affected my hand.”  
  
“Dragon Pox? That’s really been going around lately,” I said.  
  
“…Possibly,” Dumbledore said.  
  
“You should get that checked out,” I said.  
  
“I’ll certainly take that into advisement,” Dumbledore said, which is his way of saying that he’ll completely ignore it. “Don’t you have a class, at the moment?”  
  
“It’s just Defense. Snape’ll fail me no matter what I do.”  
  
For once, I could go into a year of schooling unconcerned about losing my future post. After all, I already knew that Snape was a horrible teacher.  
  
“I wish you two would work through your differences,” Dumbledore said, “and I didn’t intend for you to skip class.”  
  
If he had really meant that, he would have put it in the note. I asked, “Why did you want to see me, anyway? I haven’t done anything yet.”  
  
“I hoped to show you a memory,” he said. “Do you know what a pensieve is?”

* * *

I stumbled out of the pensieve, Dumbledore serenely following. Fawkes, of course, was watching us.  
  
Dumbledore asked, “Did you notice anything interesting about the Gaunts, Harry?”  
  
I channeled my inner Ron. “No, not really. Except for the fact that they’re dirty, evil Slytherins.”  
  
“You do have a very extreme view of Slytherins,” Dumbledore noted with a frown. “Perhaps you recognized that they, like Voldemort, are descendants of Slytherin?”  
  
“Well, I guess. They seemed pretty awful, though. Probably a Squib line,” I muttered.  
  
“Yes…I’m afraid that Merope –“  
  
I blinked. “Who?”  
  
“The girl in the grey dress.”  
  
“Right,” I said.  
  
“She was Voldemort’s mother.” Dumbledore peered into my eyes, waiting for a response.  
  
“Wasn’t Voldemort an orphan?” – I paused for a moment – “I think he mentioned that during a monologue.”  
  
“He still had parents, if only for a short time,” Dumbledore said. “Though his parents were not as brave and good as yours.”  
  
I nodded. It occurred to me that I should probably find out the Potters’ first names before people realized that I didn’t know them. This resolution had long been hampered by how little I cared.  
  
Dumbledore prattled on about my family history, though I found it difficult to feign interest. No matter what Dumbledore may have thought, I’d just turned seventy years old. I’d moved on.  
  
Sure, I had some family issues in my youth, but I killed them and got over it.

* * *

We walked down the hall quickly, eager to be away from History of Magic. Fawkes, as usual, peered down at us from a protruding gargoyle that wasn’t there yesterday. We were well into the walk to our next class by the time Hermione had properly packed up her bag and latched it.  
  
Ron turned to her. “Uh, ‘Mione, I know there isn’t really anything better to do during History of Magic, but why were you watching Malfoy the whole time?”  
  
“He was watching us first,” Hermione said. “He has been all week. It’s suspicious.”  
  
Ron shrugged. “I dunno. That sounds pretty normal for him.”  
  
I said, “Between Malfoy and Fawkes, I assume I’m under surveillance at all times.”  
  
“Well, yes, but he’s more persistent about it. Quieter, too. He hasn’t called me a Mudblood at all, lately.”  
  
“And you’re starting to miss it?” I guessed.  
  
Hermione glared at me. “No, I am not! It’s just odd. He goes missing for hours at a time.”  
  
“How do _you_ know that?” Ron asked. “We’ve only got a couple of classes with him.”  
  
“Ginevra told me…and he hasn’t said anything about his father or his money all year!”  
  
Hermione was flushed and breathing heavily, impassioned. Ron stared at her, red-faced from our short yet brisk walk.  
  
I said, “He’s probably still shaken up from that thing with the twins last year.”  
  
“Apparently, the Slytherin common room still smells like smoke,” Ron said.  
  
Hermione hissed, “Malfoy is up to something.”  
  
I shrugged. “I’m not too concerned, really.”  
  
Hermione stormed off. It wasn’t a particularly effective exit, however, because she was still going in the same direction as us. Also, I sat next to her in our next class, which was starting in about three minutes.  
  
I frowned. “I wonder if she wants to rekindle her romance with Malfoy…”  
  
Ron whipped around. “WHAT?!”  
  
“You didn’t know?” I asked. “Except, no, I suppose you wouldn’t. They kept it pretty quiet, after all.”  
  
“Bloody hell, mate, what are you talking about?”  
  
“Back in Fourth Year, Hermione and Malfoy dated for a while. Things got pretty intense, but then they realized that they were from two different worlds and could never be together…Draco was devastated.”  
  
“Y-you’re taking the piss out of me, right?” Ron stuttered.  
  
I shook my head gravely. “No, Ron. Even I can’t make this stuff up!”

* * *

Later that evening, we were lounging in the Gryffindor common room, doing homework, when Ron stumbled over with a giggling witch hanging off his arm.  
  
“So Lavender and me are dating, now,” Ron said. “We’re really into each other.”  
  
I tried my best to ignore the situation, while Ginevra was hurriedly taking notes. Hermione pursed her lips. “Really? How did you two get together?”  
  
“Uh, I dunno. It happened pretty naturally, I guess. We have a lot in common, y’know.”  
  
“I think he’s just _so_ brave for facing his transformations every month,” Lavender cooed. “Aren’t you, Won-Won?”  
  
Ron laughed nervously. “It’s not like I do that much, really. I’m just a guy…who turns into a werewolf sometimes.”  
  
Lavender kissed him on the nose. “So humble, too!”  
  
I said, “I, for one, am glad that Ron is finally being open about his werewolf status after so many years of hiding.”  
  
“I’m not a…uh, hiding. Anymore.”  
  
Lavender squeezed his arm, beaming.  
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I _really_ admire your honesty.”  
  
“…Thanks,” Ron said.  
  
Lavender glanced at Hermione, whispered something in Ron’s ear, and burst into giggles. Ron mostly looked uncomfortable, though he happily accepted her offer to snog.  
  
In an unrelated incident, Hermione started grumbling about something (presumably Malfoy) and snapped her quill in half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviewers bring this up semi-regularly, so I would like to clarify: I know that Dolores Umbridge is a Slytherin, according to Pottermore.
> 
> 1) This fic is book compliant, in its own weird way, but the extended universe is out the window.   
> 2) Having Slytherin as the "evil" house is lazy. Umbridge is the epitome of an evil Hufflepuff.


	15. Harry Potter vs. Love (Pt. 2)

A dozen Death Eaters and I sat in Grimmauld Place’s dining room. Kreacher had long ago cleared our plates, though tea and a few desserts still lingered. Against my protests, Bellatrix had spooned pudding onto my plate.

“It’s good for you!” she crooned.  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “ _Vanilla pudding_ is good for me.”  
  
Bellatrix’s eyes darted about the table. “Yes.”  
  
Frowning, I turned away from her. “Lucius, any progress on our plans to break into Hogwarts and kidnap Harry Potter?”  
  
“Yes, my lord, but I fear it will be difficult. According to my sources in Hogwarts –“  
  
“You mean your son?” Sirius asked, earning a cuff on the back of the head from Severus.  
  
“My. Sources. In. Hogwarts,” Lucius ground out, “have informed me that Potter spends most of his time invisible and only periodically attends classes.”  
  
“He’s never in Defense,” Severus drawled.  
  
I nodded. “And the break-in?”  
  
“We’ve acquired a Vanishing Cabinet that has a twin in the Room of Requirement. However, it seems to be broken, and my son –“  
  
“Sucks at magic?” Sirius said.  
  
“In this instance, I have to agree,” Severus said. “It’s a wonder he’s passing Defense.”  
  
“Yes, yes, you’re the new DADA professor at Hogwarts,” I snapped. “We’re aware.”  
  
“Things are progressing well under the circumstances, my lor…oh, Trelawney,” Lucius ended sourly.  
  
Having wandered down from her floor, Trelawney watched us in silent horror. She looked like she might faint. This would be a poor decision, mind you, because the only person in a position to catch her was Bellatrix.  
  
I smiled at the seer. “Would you like to join us?”  
  
Trelawney shook her head, though the motion was slight enough that she may have simply been trembling. “There are thirteen of you at the table. The first of you to rise shall also be the first to die.”  
  
“But, if you join us, then there will be fourteen people at the table, and we’ll all be fine.”  
  
Trelawney blinked. “Oh. Yes. I suppose that might work. Truly, fate has favored us this evening.”  
  
She shakily settled into an empty chair. I, of course, immediately darted out of mine. “HA! I’ve escaped.”  
  
Trelawney moaned, collapsing atop the table. Bellatrix seemed similarly upset. “But, my lord, you haven’t eaten your pudding.”  
  
“I don’t want the pudding,” I declared.  
  
She picked up the bowl, a maniacal look in her eye, and tried to grab my robes. Failing that, she said, “But, my lord, I made it just for you. It’s really good. I love you!”  
  
I fled the room, Bellatrix not far behind.

* * *

Slughorn surveyed the class, chins trembling in excitement. “Ah, very good. It looks like everyone’s here today. We’ll be brewing Amortentia. Is anyone familiar with it?”  
  
Hermione’s hand shot into the air. Slughorn chortled. “Miss Granger, reaching for the sky as usual, I see.”  
  
“Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in existence. It’s identified by its mother-of-pearl sheen, smells differently to every person, and causes a strong infatuation in the drinker,” Hermione said.  
  
“Very good, Miss Granger. Been reading your textbook, I see,” Slughorn said. “Mr. Potter, you had something to add?”  
  
“I refuse to brew this potion,” I said. The classroom filled with murmurs.  
  
“Really, now! What’s the trouble?” Slughorn asked.  
  
“Love potions are vile things. They completely consume the will of the victim, leaving them horrified and disturbed when the potion eventually wears off,” I said.  
  
Ron gaped. “Really?”  
  
“Oh, yes, it’s quite terrible for them,” I assured him.  
  
“It’s just a learning experience,” Slughorn said, “not a suggestion. Nothing to worry about.”  
  
“Why would you teach someone how to do something if you don’t want them to?” I snapped. “This is exactly the sort of thing that got that Second Year Slytherin killed.”  
  
Hermione said, “Harry has a point. I’m not sure if I’m comfortable doing this, either.”  
  
“I’d expect to see it on your NEWTs, almost no chance it wouldn’t be,” Slughorn said.  
  
She bit her lip. “Even still…”  
  
“Do you know how many crimes are committed by people under love potion?” I demanded. “More than those under the Imperius.”  
  
“Potter has a point,” Blaise Zabini said. “You can talk someone under love potion into doing just about anything: running off the side of a building, taunting a Hippogriff, challenging a Goblin to a fight to the death…”  
  
“I was very sorry to hear about your stepfather. He was a good man. Not too bright, but good,” Slughorn said.  
  
We were winning. I was certain of it. “That isn’t even getting into all the crimes committed against those under the potion: robbery, sexual assault, murder.”  
  
“Putting them under at all could be considered slavery,” Hermione said. Ron was looking increasingly ill.  
  
I nodded. “And what about all the witches who give Muggles love potions and then marry them? The Muggles don’t know to check for that sort of thing.”  
  
“The magicals usually don’t check, either,” Zabini noted.  
  
“And think of the children!”  
  
Ron stuttered, “W-what about the children?”  
  
I said, “Can you imagine how it is for them? If their mother ever forgets to dose their father, he’ll leave the family, and she’ll die of a broken heart. Then, they’ll be all alone, spurned by a man they never really knew.”  
  
Ron slumped against the desk, groaning.

Slughorn sighed. “Well, if you’re all certain, I suppose we could just have an essay on Amortentia, instead...”  
  
Hermione nodded eagerly, ignoring Ron’s continued sounds of misery.  
  
“…Of course, it really is a pity. I was planning to give a prize to the best brewer.”  
  
“What kind of prize?” I asked.  
  
“It doesn’t matter much now, you understand, since I was planning it specifically for this lesson. But I have a single vial of Felix Felicis, also known as –“  
  
“Liquid luck,” I breathed. “I rescind my earlier complaints and reject everyone who agreed with me!”  
  
Slughorn appeared shocked. “Quite sure about that? You seemed terribly set against it.”  
  
“Who am I to get in the way of learning?” I declared, grabbing my potions set and sprinting towards the ingredient cupboard.

* * *

“Gather round, everyone,” Slughorn called, waving us towards the winning potion. “What do you smell, then, Miss Granger?”  
  
A dreamy smile lit up her face. “There’s a scent of freshly mown grass, new parchment, spearmint toothpaste, and…ginger.”  
  
Ron piped up. “I smell my Chudley Cannons’ shirt, cake, and…”  
  
Slughorn sidled next to him, asking, “What is it? A certain girl, perhaps?”  
  
“Lavender!” Ron blurted out.  
  
I said, “Lavender the plant or Lavender the person?”  
  
“Uh, both?” Ron asked, glancing around nervously.  
  
Luna Lovegood sighed. “That’s very romantic. Mine is mostly mistletoe, but there’s a slight scent of brimstone.”  
  
“Luna, what are you doing here?” I asked.  
  
The blonde giggled. “I had a free period, of course.”  
  
“That explains it,” I said. Ron and Hermione shot us odd looks.  
  
“What does it smell like to you, Harry?” Luna asked.  
  
I leaned forward, taking a deep breath. “Snakes, and…I dunno. Sewers, maybe?”

* * *

Ron and Hermione huddled together, whispering and glancing in my direction while Lavender jealously watched the exchange. Finally coming to a decision, the two of them walked over to me.  
  
Hermione took point. “Harry, I really am quite grateful that you saved me from Malfoy’s conjured snake, but I have a couple of questions. First of all, why is it still wrapped around your neck?”  
  
“I’ve always wanted a pet,” I said, grinning down at the snake. “I think I’ll call him Ophion.”  
  
“Okay,” she said. “And, also, why is it not biting you?”  
  
“I think he likes me,” I said. “Also, I learned snake charming in –“  
  
“Ginny,” Ron interrupted. “Can you set up the privacy spells?”  
  
“On it!” Ginevra cried, rushing over to us.  
  
“Thanks,” he said, then turned to me. “How’d you really do it, then?”  
  
“I don’t know why you don’t believe me,” I said sullenly.  
  
Hermione huffed. “Alright, fine. I was going to give you a chance to tell the truth on your own, but you clearly have no intention of doing so. I heard you speaking to it in Parseltongue.”  
  
“You don’t know that,” I said. “I could have just been hissing at it. Unless _you_ speak Parseltongue.”  
  
I narrowed my eyes at her and my new pet did the same, but the girl merely raised an eyebrow. “You hissed at it, and it immediately curled around your arm.”  
  
Ron’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute! In Second Year, were _you_ the Heir of Slytherin?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Oh, that makes so much more sense than the story you told me,” Hermione said.  
  
Ron continued, “Then, when you said that you were getting rid of the Heir, did you just mean that you were going to stop?”  
  
“I was gone for two days, Ron! If I was the Heir, what do you think I was doing during that time?”  
  
Ron shrugged. “I dunno. Dealing with your murderous urges?”  
  
“I’m not the Heir!”  
  
Hermione frowned. “It’s alright if you were. We won’t be angry. In retrospect, that conversation about how everyone was the Heir was clearly a cry for help. Obviously, Hagrid shouldn’t have been blamed, but he _did_ turn out to be a Death Eater, so it’s really for the best…”  
  
“Look, I would love to take credit for this,” I said, “but I’m not the Heir.”  
  
“Who was it, then?” Ron asked.  
  
“Uh, I can’t tell you,” I muttered, stroking Ophion.  
  
Ron and Hermione shot me skeptical looks. Meanwhile, Ginevra was standing very still, eyes wide. It seemed that she was taking her duty as a guard very seriously.  
  
They probably wouldn’t have believed me if I explained that the actual Heir was Voldemort’s childhood diary. Even if they did, that might lead them…well, Hermione to realize the existence of my Horcruxes. A decoy was clearly necessary.  
  
I said, “Because, even if you talked to him, he wouldn’t remember the incident. You see, I obliviated him because I – like Dumbledore – believe in second chances.”  
  
 _“The red girl smells like fear,”_ Ophion informed me.  
  
 _“Quiet!”_ I snapped, _“I’m trying to convince them that I’m not evil, and you eating someone will not help the situation.”_  
  
“Harry,” Hermione said. “Do you honestly expect us to believe that?”  
  
“Yes?” I said.  
  
At that moment, Ginevra dropped the Silencing Charm and (clearly terrified of my new pet) scurried towards the Girls’ Dormitory.

* * *

There was only one word on the note: _Taffy._  
  
I scowled down at the paper, twisting it this way and that in the hopes that more words would appear. It wouldn’t be that odd. Magic does that sometimes.  
  
Growling, I shoved it into my pocket and glared around the breakfast table. “Did any of you tell Dumbledore about my…foreign language experience?”  
  
Hermione and Ron both shook their heads, each absorbed in a book. Huh, Ron reading. That was a first.  
  
“Ginevra?” I threatened.  
  
“I wouldn’t ever betray you,” Ginevra assured me. “I owe you way too much.”  
  
She really was a very good minion. Loyal, cunning, mildly insane, even somewhat attra…I shoved away my plate.  
  
“Ginevra, did you put love potion in my eggs?”  
  
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I haven’t got all the ingredients yet.”  
  
“If I find out that you’re lying…”  
  
“Harry, if I had dosed you with Mum’s potion, you would be kissing me right now. It’s a really good potion.”  
  
I nodded stiffly, glaring back down at the note. Did Silencing Charms not work on portraits? Or were the walls spying for Dumbledore, as well?  
  
“Bloody hell, the Death Eaters were right!” Ron exclaimed.  
  
I smirked. “Out of all my friends, I should have known that you would be the one to become a Blood Purist.”  
  
Ron frowned. “Wha? I, no, I don’t mean it like that. They weren’t right about most things. Murdering gits. It’s just, uh, Lavender kept talking about all the stuff I dealt with as a werewolf, and I got curious about what she meant. Things really suck for them…I mean us. And, apparently, Werewolf Rights was pretty important to Death Eaters.”  
  
“Only if the werewolf was Pureblood,” Hermione said. “ _Mudbloods_ were out of luck.”  
  
“Twenty points for foul language, Miss Granger,” Severus said, sweeping past.  
  
I left for the Headmaster’s office.

* * *

“They’re lying! The only language I know is English!”  
  
I stormed into the Headmaster’s office. His phoenix landed on my shoulder, biting at my ear with…affection, I guess?  
  
Dumbledore seemed surprised. “Ah, Harry. I called you up here today to learn more about Voldemort. Was there something else you would like to talk about?”  
  
“No, not at all. Let’s talk about Voldemort,” I muttered.  
  
“I see,” Dumbledore said, peering at me atop his glasses and stroking his beard with a shriveled hand. “Lemon drop?”  
  
I waved it off, the movement jostling Fawkes. “The memory?”  
  
“It is of the first time I met young Tom Riddle. Even then, he was a very cold child,” Dumbledore said.  
  
We walked to the pensieve, leaning forward until we were sucked inside. I glanced at the bird still digging its claws into my shoulder and regarding the dilapidated orphanage around us with deep suspicion.  
  
“I didn’t know phoenixes could go into pensieves,” I remarked.  
  
Dumbledore chuckled. “Fawkes can go anywhere he likes, I think.”  
  
We followed the younger Headmaster, then a Transfiguration professor, through his travels and conversation with a Wool’s Orphanage worker. It was then that he met the matron.  
  
Mrs. Cole never liked me.  
  
Further, she seemed quite intent on ensuring that Dumbledore felt the same.  
  
Her main complaints were that I was weird (i.e. a wizard) and creepy (i.e. well-behaved). She had some legitimate points, but I would argue that all the children at my orphanage were horrible. I was just better at it than they were.  
  
I felt a sudden regret that I’d never murdered her. I could do it now, but she was probably already dead. It had been like fifty years.  
  
After twenty minutes of commiserating with Mrs. Cole about how awful I was, Dumbledore decided to actually meet me.  
  
My younger self immediately began panicking, certain that he would be sent to the asylum. I’d been threatened with it plenty of times. Some nights, I lie awake, wondering if I actually was sent there.  
  
Dumbledore responded by setting everything I owned on fire.  
  
There’s a reason he was always my least-favorite professor.  
  
“Is that proof enough for you, Tom?” he asked, oblivious to the phoenix flying repeatedly through his head.  
  
“What proof? I saw nothing. You’re not taking me to the asylum,” Tom muttered.  
  
Dumbledore’s younger self sighed, putting out the fire. The wardrobe began shivering, then, and Dumbledore encouraged the boy to take out a box filled with small things.  
  
“Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said. Of course, he didn’t bother to check the other children’s wardrobes to see if they had any of _my_ things in there because that would be fair.  
  
Dumbledore explained Diagon Alley and its many shops. “I could accompany you –“  
  
“Hah! And let you lead me straight to the madhouse? I think not.”  
  
I probably should have let him come. I’ve always been terrible with directions.  
  
On the bright side, I did discover Knockturn Alley in my travels…

* * *

The moment he heard footsteps on the staircase, Ron dove under his bed covers.  
  
Ginevra giggled at the very noticeable lump he made under the blankets. “It’s just me.”  
  
Ron said, “Uh, ‘me’ isn’t Lavender, is it?”  
  
“No. It’s Ginny,” she said. You’d think Ron would know his only sister’s voice, but I suppose fear had taxed his already-limited mental abilities.  
  
“Oh, thank Merlin…Wait, what are you doing up here?! You better not be messing around with Dean, or I’ll kill him,” Ron snapped, bursting out from under the bed covers.  
  
The redhead sat on the corner of his mattress. “Dean and I broke up a couple of weeks ago.”  
  
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Ron asked, face darkening.  
  
She shook her head, smiling. “No, nothing like that. Dean just didn’t want to date me anymore because he thinks I’m obsessed with Harry Potter. And I didn’t really want to date _him_ anymore because he got upset every time I tried to help Harry. Also, trying to maintain dozens of friendships _and_ a relationship at the same time is exhausting.”  
  
Ron frowned. “Oh. Well, why did you come here, then?”  
  
“Harry needs our help downstairs.”  
  
“With what?” Ron asked.  
  
“Dunno. He didn’t say” – Ginevra turned towards the door – “Harry?”  
  
I pulled down my invisibility cloak, wrapping it around my shoulders.

Ron rolled his eyes, grumbling, “Should’ve know you were invisible. What’s going on, then?”  
  
I grinned. “We’re killing Bellatrix Lestrange.”  
  
Ron’s mouth fell open into a typical Weasley pose.  
  
Ginevra said, “Oh, we should tell Neville. He’s always wanted to do that.”  
  
“H-how?” Ron squeaked.  
  
“Remember how Hermione suggested that we should use my connection to the Dark Lord to play upon his paranoia, causing him to kill his own people?”  
  
“Uh, sort of,” Ron said.  
  
“Well, he’s finally gone to bed at a decent hour, and I’ve figured out how to activate his visions,” I said. “So come along before he wakes up.”  
  
Ron chuckled nervously. “I, uh, can’t.”  
  
“You’re very important for authenticity,” I said. “He’s come to expect a strong Weasley presence.”  
  
“Sorry, mate. Lavender thinks I’m a werewolf, and it’s the night of the full moon. If she sees me, she’ll hex me for sure.”  
  
“And break up with you,” Ginevra chirped.  
  
“Right. She’d probly do that, too,” he agreed.  
  
“I suppose we could do it up here,” I muttered, glancing around the Boys’ Dormitory. “You might want to put on robes first, though.”

* * *

“Let us begin our latest meeting of the Junior Order of the Phoenix,” I declared.  
  
I stood on Ron’s bed. Below me, Hermione, Ron, Ginevra, and Neville sat cross-legged on the floor. I made a show of slowly surveying them. “It looks like everyone is here, so we shall move on to our first order of business: What have we heard from our mother organization?”  
  
Ron snorted. “The Order’s telling us nothing.”  
  
“Dumbledore did ask us to disband, though,” Ginevra said.  
  
“He does that pretty often,” Neville said.  
  
“Order. Order. Calm yourselves,” I said, gesturing for them to settle down. “Let us move on to our next topic: What have we heard from our spies?”  
  
“I have not heard anything from Bellatrix Lestrange for weeks,” Hermione said, carefully enunciating each syllable. “I believe she may be dead.”  
  
Neville slumped forward, leaning his cheek against a loose fist. “No. I don’t believe it.”  
  
“Well, it was going to happen eventually,” Ginevra said. “She overacts all the time.”  
  
“Yeah. Like anyone could ever be in love with V-Voldemort,” Ron said, looking pleased to have stuttered out my hated, former name.  
  
“We should not lose hope,” I said. “Voldemort is too arrogant to suspect her. Bellatrix is probably fine. Now, let us discuss our group colors.”  
  
“I suggest red and gold,” Hermione said.  
  
“Who approves of that suggest – okay, he’s gone,” I said. “Nice job, guys. I love how you all sounded as if you had no idea what you were doing. Especially you, Ginevra.”  
  
“I’ve always wanted to be in a play, but we don’t do those here. Or any other activities that aren’t Quidditch,” Ginevra said.  
  
I grinned. “I suspect it’s because the school is so old. People assume that, if we don’t do something, it’s because we don’t do that here. And all the things that we started out doing have been outlawed for being too violent.”  
  
“Like the Triwizard Tournament?” Ron asked.  
  
“Exactly,” I said. “Of course, we did bring that back, so I suppose –“  
  
“We just condemned a woman to death!” Hermione cried. “Are none of you even _slightly_ upset about this?!”  
  
I frowned. “Hermione, she’s _Bellatrix Lestrange_.”  
  
“She tortured my parents into insanity,” Neville said flatly.  
  
“She’s a Death Eater,” Ron grunted.  
  
“She tortured Neville’s parents into insanity,” Ginevra said.  
  
Hermione’s eyes darted between us until, finally, she groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Why am _I_ the one everyone calls evil?”

* * *

“YOU KILLED MY SNAKE!”  
  
Hermione looked quite justifiably horrified. “Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry. You startled me.”  
  
I clutched at the space around my neck where Ophion had just been. “THIS IS WHAT ALWAYS HAPPENS! YOU THROW AROUND DANGEROUS SPELLS AND KILL SWEET, INNOCENT THINGS!”  
  
“For Merlin’s sake, it was just a Jelly-Legs Jinx,” she said. “I couldn’t have known it would disappear.”  
  
“Really, Hermione? You couldn’t have known? I save your life, you kill my pet, and that’s all you have to say to me?”  
  
“I’m sorry, alright?” Hermione snapped. “I can conjure you a new one.”  
  
“No, that won’t work,” I said. “You have to make Malfoy do it.”  
  
“I am not going to taunt Malfoy into throwing a snake at me!” Hermione shouted.  
  
Ron shook his head, muttering, “Really? Seems like that’s all you want, lately.”  
  
She whirled around, hissing, “Shouldn’t you be off snogging Lavender or something?”  
  
“I’ll have you know she broke up with me ‘cause she saw you sneaking off to the Boys’ Dormitory and got the wrong impression,” he said.  
  
Hermione said, “Oh, so now that’s my fault, too?”  
  
“Maybe it is. Maybe, if you would spend more time paying attention to your friends and less time mooning over Malfoy, none of this would be happening!”  
  
“I do not _moon_ over Malfoy.”  
  
“Just stalking him, then?” he said.  
  
I raised a hand, feeling dizzy. “Woah. You guys need to slow down for a second. I can’t keep track of all these relationships.”  
  
I took a deep breath and continued, “Thankfully, I have people for that. Ginevra?”  
  
The redhead ushered us into seats facing an empty wall, where Hermione and Ron continued sneering at each other. With a flick of Ginevra’s wand, dozens of pictures flew onto the board.  
  
She cleared her throat. “Ron’s ex-girlfriend, as of this morning, is Lavender Brown. Lavender is currently trying to get together with my ex-boyfriend Dean –“  
  
“That was quick, the bint,” Ron grumbled. Hermione elbowed him in the ribs. A crowd had begun to gather, and Lavender threw a hex in Ron’s direction.  
  
“— but her first crush was Parvati Patil.”  
  
“It wasn’t _really_ a crush. We just practiced kissing together, so I would be better at it for guys like Won…I mean Deany,” Lavender said.  
  
Ginevra continued, “Now, Parvati may be a little _too_ close to her twin, but no one talks about that for fear of being labeled a pervert. Padma likes Ron, possibly because he reminds her of her sister. Ron, meanwhile, is in love with Hermione Granger. But he hasn’t realized that yet.”  
  
Ron yelped, “WHAT?!”  
  
Hermione flushed, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny this declaration had earned her.  
  
“Hermione also loves Ron, but she’s waiting for him to grow up first. So it’ll probly be a while. Hermione has also been stalking Draco Malfoy. Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dorms, Crabbe is dating Tracy but likes Daphne, and Goyle is dating Daphne but likes Tracy. This would be completely independent from the web, except that all of them are _also_ stalking Draco Malfoy. Now, Draco likes his father, his money and spending inordinate amounts of time in the Room of Requirement.”  
  
“How do you know that?” Hermione asked. “I only figured it out a couple of days ago.”  
  
“Quiet,” I said. “She’s on a roll.”  
  
“Presumably, he uses it for disturbing and vaguely sexual purposes because Draco, like all Purebloods, is a pervert.”  
  
Ron’s face twisted in confusion. “Gin, _we’re_ Purebloods.”  
  
“Nobody likes Neville,” Ginevra continued, “but he likes Ginny Weasley. She hasn’t noticed yet –“  
  
“You –“ Ron began, stopping short when Hermione set a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“– because she has a HUGE crush on Harry Potter. Unfortunately for Ginny, Harry only likes inanimate objects and abstract concepts because his emotional development stalled somewhere around age eleven.”  
  
Hermione nodded, always eager to undermine my authority.  
  
“I could widen the web to include people not directly connected and the younger years, but then I’d need a bigger wall,” Ginevra finished apologetically.  
  
“That isn’t necessary,” I assured her.  
  
While Ginevra bowed to the Gryffindor common room, I turned to Hermione. “So, Draco’s hanging out in the Room of Requirement, huh? We could do something about that.”

* * *

“Malfoy can’t get into the Room of Requirement?” Hermione said, pacing the common room. “How is that even possible?”  
  
“I sealed the room, but it isn’t foolproof. He can still collect the key, which I’ve broken into seven pieces and scattered across the castle. Once he’s gathered them all, he’ll realize that he didn’t need a key. The true key was within him all along.”  
  
“So, he _can_ get in, then?” Hermione said.  
  
“Not for months.”  
  
She raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you just lock the room and _not_ leave the key lying around?”  
  
“This is a ritual, Hermione,” I said. “It’s better than most magic but only works if you make it somewhat fair. Without a loophole, it isn’t fair. For instance, the Fidelius will hide you from everybody, but you have to trust one person because you can’t hide from _everybody._ ”  
  
Hermione frowned. “I’ve never read about that before.”  
  
“It’s Dark Magic.”  
  
“Huh,” Hermione said, collapsing into a loveseat. “I guess I don’t need to follow Malfoy around anymore.”  
  
“Not unless you want to,” I agreed.  
  
Hermione stared at the fireplace blankly. The distant squealing of Lavender Brown, new girlfriend of Dean Thomas, filled the silence. After a few minutes, she said, “I reorganized my schedule so that I would have plenty of time to investigate Malfoy. So, now, I don’t actually have anything to do.”  
  
“You could always start recruiting for your Dark army.”  
  
She blinked at me, and I elaborated, “Ginevra is a good start, but now is the perfect time to network. Try getting the Slytherins. They’re already trained to be minions.”  
  
“And to hate me,” Hermione pointed out.  
  
“It’ll be fine. Just tell them you’re a Pureblood.”  
  
Hermione laughed, no doubt delighted by my suggestion. “It isn’t that simple, Harry.”  
  
“Of course it is. You say that you’re from the Granger family, who are really famous in France, and they would know that if they weren’t a bunch of backwards, untraveled hicks. They say that they’ll check up on your story, but they never do.”  
  
“You’re joking,” she said.  
  
“Happens all the time,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Abraxas Malfoy was a Muggleborn. He said he was from France. Have you ever been to France? I’ve never been to France. I don’t think Draco’s been to France. If he has great-grandparents there, why hasn’t he ever visited? WHERE ARE THE GREAT-GRANDMALFOYS?”  
  
Hermione began massaging her temple (probably Lavender’s fault). “You did _not_ just accuse Draco Malfoy of being a half-blood.”  
  
“Of course not. Draco’s a Pureblood. _Lucius_ is the half-blood.”  
  
Hermione said, “Regardless, I’ve told plenty of people I’m a Muggleborn.”  
  
I nodded. Hermione had backed herself into a corner, and, once again, it was my job to rescue her.  
  
“In that case, tell them that Muggleborns don’t exist,” I said.  
  
Hermione merely raised an eyebrow, pointed at herself, and said, “Really?”  
  
“No, hear me out here,” I said. “What if all Muggleborn children are just magical children whose parents left them with memory-charmed Muggles and then died? Or maybe they just didn’t want them.”  
  
Hermione said, “I’m sure that, if we ask Ron –“  
  
“He wouldn’t know,” I said. “The Weasleys keep all of their children. That’s why everyone thinks they’re weird.”  
  
She sighed. “This is the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard in my life, and I’ve been friends with _you_ for _six years_.”  
  
I stared her dead in the eyes. “Are you honestly telling me that you can’t think of a single person who would charm a Muggle for free babysitting?”  
  
Lavender’s squeals split the air, and Hermione, defeated, trudged off to bed.

* * *

“…and cannot access the room where he’s keeping all of his materials until he completes a quest,” Lucius finished his report, placing a kiss on the hem of my robes.  
  
“Hm. What sort of quest?” I asked.  
  
“He must retrieve seven keys, hidden in Hogwarts,” Lucius said.  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure the key isn’t already in him?”  
  
Lucius tensed for a crucio, silver hand curled into a fist. “I don’t understand, my lord.”  
  
“You never really understand. It’s more of a feeling…I presume this is Harry Potter’s doing. The boy is a genius, after all.”  
  
Severus interjected, “Really? I wouldn’t know. He’s always been miserable at Potions, and he’s failing Defense Against the Dark Arts. There are basic factual errors in all of his essays. I don’t think he reads the textbook. Frankly, I’m not certain he reads.”  
  
“That _you_ teach both those subjects doesn’t make any difference at all, eh, Snape?” Sirius said. He lounged against the wall, a disrespect I would only allow from my right-hand man.  
  
Severus sneered at him. “Potter’s idiocy can hardly be blamed on me.”  
  
“Ah, come off it, Snape. We all know you hated James.”  
  
Severus said, “I assure you that I hate the boy on his own merits. While Potter, like his father, is a pompous glory hound, he is also undoubtedly a Slytherin.”  
  
Sirius growled, “You take that back!”  
  
Snape merely smirked at the wand jabbed into his neck. I said, “Alright, let’s all calm down. We’ve already lost enough people to Bellatrix’s treachery.”  
  
In retrospect, her insistence on killing her fellow Death Eaters makes a lot more sense now. I continued, “So the previous plan is ruined, then?”  
  
“Yes, my lord,” Lucius said, trying to hide within his hair.  
  
I sighed. “I suppose we’ll just have to floo in, then.”  
  
Sirius blinked. “Wait, we can do that?”  
  
I shrugged, rising from my throne. “I don’t see why not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I changed the orphanage scene for my own amusement, it’s worth noting that canon’s young Tom Riddle is disturbingly like our Harrymort. He denies crimes he wasn’t accused of, jumps to wild conclusions that he refuses to let go of, and is a total braggart. Seriously, check out HBP Ch. 13. It’s freaking hilarious.


	16. Chapter 8: Harry Potter vs. Love (Pt. 3)

I tripped on my way outside of the pensieve, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. I was viciously pleased when Dumbledore did the same, even if it was on me.  
  
“Quite alright, my boy?” Dumbledore asked, standing and holding out a withered hand.  
  
I grabbed the edge of his desk to haul myself up. “Fine. I was simply examining the floor for defects and found it woefully inadequate.”  
  
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as I slumped into a chair, checking my robes for dirt. I found myself dizzy in ways unexplained by magical travel. We’d gone back to a particular class during my first time at Hogwarts, but that wasn’t how I remembered that conversation at all.  
  
Which led to the question: Was my memory faulty? Had someone obliviated me? Or oblivated Slughorn? I’m pretty sure I would recall if I had done that…Would I?  
  
Also, what was that white fog? Potions fumes? I said, “Sir, I know the dungeons have always had ventilation problems, but was it really that bad back then?”  
  
Dumbledore said, “That wasn’t normal smoke, I’m afraid. It’s proof of memory tampering.”  
  
“Who did it?” I asked. “Voldemort? A Death Eater? You? Professor –“  
  
“He did it to himself, out of shame,” Dumbledore said. “Whatever happened in that conversation has laid very heavily on Horace’s conscience, very heavily indeed. It may be the very information we require to destroy Lord Voldemort.”  
  
I nodded.  
  
“I need you to get that memory for me, Harry,” Dumbledore said gravely.  
  
It’s important to remember that Dumbledore only calls people to his office when he wants to manipulate them into doing something for him. Or to manipulate them into learning some sort of moral lesson. Sometimes both.

* * *

It had been nearly a day since we first attempted to floo into Hogwarts.  
  
Lucius had successfully made it through, but the green fire merely fizzled when Sirius tried to follow him. My right-hand man’s robes still occasionally released puffs of smoke as we anxiously waited by the fireplace.  
  
“Whaddaya bet he got captured and gave us all up?” Sirius said.  
  
“Shut up, Black,” Rodolphus Lestrange growled at him.  
  
“Oh, come on. This is _Lucy_ we’re talking about. I bet he told them everything the moment they pointed a wand at him.”  
  
It seemed that, once again, Sirius Black had said what we were all thinking. I sighed heavily. “Well, Rookwood and Hagrid are watching the front door, so we’re prepared if Dumbledore tries to break in. I presume the wards haven’t alerted you of anything?”  
  
Sirius grinned, no doubt thrilled to present me with good news. “Nope.”  
  
“I just don’t understand how this happened. The plan was foolproof!” I said.  
  
“I bet Bellatrix warned them,” Sirius said.  
  
Rodolphus sneered at him. “She’s been dead longer than we’ve been planning this.”  
  
“Hey, she knew Trelawney,” Sirius said. “Unless you’re doubting our prophetess?”  
  
“No, of course not,” he muttered.  
  
Earlier, I had ventured to the third floor, where the air is thick with exotic perfumes and ancient magic. There, I had found Trelawney hunched over a table. Her nose was half-flattened against her crystal ball, her eyes squeezed shut to better see with her third eye. While she had no clear visions of Lucius’s whereabouts, or his likely betrayal, she insisted that we remain at Grimmauld Place. It was, she told me, our only hope.  
  
I was torn from my musings as the fireplace roared to life. A robed figure stepped calmly from the green flames.  
  
“Good evening, my lord, my fellow Death Eaters, Mutt,” Severus said, nodding to each of us in turn but reserving a sneer for Sirius.  
  
“What in Merlin’s name happened?” I snapped.  
  
“Apparently, an uninvited guest flooing into the Slytherin common room sends the entire castle into lockdown,” Severus said. “We were stuck there for hours.”  
  
I frowned. “Has Lucius been captured, then?”  
  
“No, my lord. When Dumbledore arrived to interrogate him, Lucius claimed that he was doing a surprise inspection for the Board of Governors. There was some suspicion when it turned out that the Board had not been aware of this, but he reminded us all that he did say it was a _surprise_ ,” Severus drawled.  
  
“That’s Lucius. He’s always been good at slithering out of trouble,” Sirius said.  
  
“Indeed. Now, why is Lucius not reporting his failure to me personally?” I stroked my wand, causing the entire group to shudder, save Sirius. There is a reason he’s my right-hand man, after all.  
  
Severus said, “He was invited to dinner, and Dumbledore expects him to perform a slightly less surprising inspection of the school before he leaves.”  
  
“How unfortunate,” I muttered.  
  
“In happier news,” Severus said, “Potter nearly got himself killed doing some sort of Dark ritual.”

* * *

It had been fifty-seven years since I’d visited the Hospital Wing, but it hadn’t changed much. The sickly smell of potions filled the air, mingling with the citrus scent left by years of heavy cleaning charms. The bed was slightly too hard, to subtly discourage students from lingering, and, even through the bandages, I could still see its painfully white walls.  
  
I heard Hermione lean towards me from her perch in the visitor’s chair. “What have you learned today?”  
  
“There’s a reason wizards wear glasses. Eyes are complicated,” I said.  
  
She snorted. “True. What else?”  
  
“Don’t just read the summary of a ritual in the book. There might be warnings or better instructions later on,” I said.  
  
“What _else_?”  
  
I frowned. “I can’t think of anything else. I’m pretty sure those are the only things I learned from this experience.”  
  
“How about: Don’t perform an untested ritual in the middle of a school-wide lockdown? Honestly, Harry, what were you thinking?!”  
  
I shrugged. “I didn’t want to be disturbed. It’s not like I was invisible this time.”  
  
“Madame Pomfrey couldn’t get to you for hours,” Hermione said. “You could have died.”  
  
“Probably not died,” I said. “Lost my eyes, maybe, but then I could just get better ones. Like Moody’s.”  
  
“You are not getting fake, magical eyes.”  
  
I chuckled. “Well, obviously not now. The ritual didn’t go that badly.”  
  
Hermione was silent for a time, probably reading. She does that a lot. “Harry, what was wrong with your old eyes?”  
  
“Well, I did need glasses, and I wanted night vision.”  
  
“Why do you need night vision? You don’t even do anything at night.”  
  
“Of course not. Without night vision, that would be stupid,” I said.  
  
I heard a soft smacking sound, likely Hermione’s palm striking her forehead.  
  
I added, “Also, I thought the whole slitted-pupil thing would look cool.”  
  
“You thought…” – Hermione took a long, deep breath – “It doesn’t, Harry. It’s creepy.”  
  
“Really? I thought you liked cats,” I said.  
  
A soft thump told me that she had leaned backwards into her chair, away from my bed. “This is ridiculous. It’s not like your normal eyes aren’t weird enough!”  
  
“I’ve told you! Red is a perfectly normal color for wizards.”  
  
“Do you really expect me to believe that? No one else has red irises, Harry.”  
  
“You don’t know everyone. There’s a Fourth-Year Slytherin girl. Ask Ginevra. She knows.”  
  
She said, “Even Luna thinks they’re odd. She doesn’t think that about anything!”  
  
“It’s a very rare trait, like Parseltongue,” I said. “It only appears in particularly pure lines –“  
  
“Your mother was a Muggleborn,” Hermione said. I could sense her eyes rolling.  
  
“You take that back!” I cried, lurching forward to point my wand in her general direction.  
  
Hermione said, “Oh, come on. You’ve been complaining about your Muggle Aunt for years.”  
  
“Squibs happen. Sometimes they squibble back. For instance, the Evans family are descendants of Merlin’s third daughter, who was disowned for marrying a halfblood.”  
  
Hermione groaned.  
  
“If I’m not a descendant of Merlin,” I continued, proudly tapping my chest with my wand, “then how did I kill Voldemort as a baby?”  
  
After a long pause, Hermione asked, “Harry, are you in a lot of pain or something?”  
  
“There is some stinging while the optic nerve tries to reconnect,” I said.  
  
“Good,” she said. “Usually your lies are better than this. No one is gullible enough to believe this tripe.”  
  
I smirked. “You don’t talk to Slytherins much, do you?”  
  
“I hardly think the house of the cunning would –“  
  
I shook my head. “You’re looking at this like a Muggleborn. The Slytherins think that blood matters and know that I’m amazing at magic. So, I’ve given them two choices: They can either believe my ridiculous story, or they can accept that a half-blood is just innately better at them in terms of everything, fundamentally changing their worldview. Which choice do you think they pick _every time_?”  
  
“That actually makes a scary amount of sense. But, seriously, what is wrong with your eyes?”  
  
She was never letting this go. I exclaimed, “Fine! Dumbledore thinks that it’s because my mother loved me a lot. I’m pretty sure that’s his way of saying that she dabbled in blood magic.”

* * *

The stack of cards and candies left by my hospital bed didn’t surprise me. I was the most powerful student at Hogwarts, a genius, and the Boy-Who-Lived. Further, I would likely achieve professorship soon enough to teach the younger years. Attempts to curry favor were to be expected.  
  
But one of the gifts lay unsigned: A box of chocolates wrapped in a bow.  
  
Lounging on my bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, I plucked a chocolate from the box and examined it. It was homemade, certainly, and it’s easy enough to pour some potion in the mixing bowl. A quick sniff revealed a cloying scent, though that could be the result of too much sugar, and another round of detection spells revealed the same result as before: It had been tampered with.  
  
I should have thrown it out days ago, but curiosity stayed my hand. Was it a love potion, a prank item from the Weasley twins, or another assassination attempt?  
  
The poison-detecting spells only told me that something was there. But that gave no insight into who was attacking me. Until I knew that, I couldn’t retaliate.  
  
I was tempted to take a bite of the chocolate just to find out. Thankfully, I have people for that.  
  
“Ron, taste these for poison.”  
  
The redhead jumped a bit in surprise, whipping his head towards me with a startled, “What?”  
  
“Just kidding,” I assured him.  
  
He frowned. “Uh, mate, you’re doing that thing where you say you’re kidding, but then you get this smug look on your face that makes me pretty sure you aren’t.”  
  
I glared at him. “Excuse me for trying to be nice. All I wanted to do was offer you chocolate, but then you doubted me.”  
  
Ron’s eyes glazed over at the mention of chocolate. His mind is incapable of keeping track of two things at once, and food will always be his priority.  
  
With a triumphant smirk, I continued, “Fortunately for you, I am a kind and generous master. Would you like some chocolate?”  
  
In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have let him eat the entire box.

* * *

“Well, Ron’s managed to overdose on love potion,” I declared, descending the Boys’ staircase.  
  
Hermione’s eyes widened, and she scrambled towards her bag in search of her Potions’ textbook. “Will he be alright?”  
  
I slumped into the nearest chair. “He’ll be fine. _We’ll_ be miserable.”  
  
Hermione flipped open her book, asking, “Do you know what kind of potion?”  
  
“Hard to tell. It was fairly fast-acting. Definitely not Amortentia. Wrong scent,” I said. “We lucked out, really. At least he can’t embarrass himself, this way.”  
  
Hermione glanced up from her book. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Between the ridiculous amount of potions in his system and all the chocolate he ate, he can’t stand. Of course, I tied him down to be sure. We should probably induce vomiting, soon, if he hasn’t already.”  
  
“W-what?” Hermione’s voice squeaked. Huh. I’d never taken her for the squeamish type. “Harry, we should probably take him to the Hospital Wing –“  
  
I shook my head. “Ron can’t run to the Hospital Wing every time something happens. He’s there enough because of his lycanthropy.”  
  
“Ron is not a werewolf,” Hermione said, studying a page on bezoars.  
  
“He’ll never accept himself if you keep making excuses for him.”  
  
“We can ask Slughorn –“  
  
I shook my head. “He’ll demand payment. Trust me, you don’t want to owe him.”  
  
She scowled at me. “We can buy an antidote, then!”  
  
I stared at her in horror. “Ron can’t afford that!”  
  
“We’re the ones who’ll be paying,” she said.  
  
I felt the familiar sting of betrayal. “I finally discover my family fortune, and the Weasleys are already trying to steal it. I always knew this would happen, but I didn’t expect it so soon.”  
  
“Harry, we can’t just let him sit up there in love with some love potion-brewing witch!”  
  
“Yes we can.”  
  
Hermione gaped at me in a very Weasley fashion.  
  
I sighed. “Hermione, look. We can’t just bail Ron out every time he eats something he shouldn’t. This is the only way he’ll build up an immunity.”  
  
“I’m fairly certain there’s no such thing as an immunity to love potions,” Hermione said.  
  
“Of course there is,” I said. “You just tie yourself up and throw up every time it happens. Eventually, you become nauseous the second you feel the effects of a love potion.”  
  
Hermione’s lips pursed, and her eyes grew distant as if solving a complex Arithmancy equation. “So…anytime you feel love, then?”  
  
I shrugged. “I guess. Isn’t it different when a potion causes it?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Hermione said, appearing deeply concerned at her lack of knowledge.  
  
Meanwhile, Ron’s wailing had apparently overpowered my Silencing Charm.  
  
“Romilda Vane!” he cried. It could have been worse, I suppose. At least he wasn’t in love with his sister.  
  
“We’ll have to watch him in shifts to make sure he doesn’t accidentally kill himself. There’s also a key period about six hours in when he’s both obsessed enough to attempt escape and lucid enough to succeed. We should probably double up on that shift.”  
  
Hermione was silent for a few moments, no doubt memorizing my instructions, before sighing and heading towards the Boys’ Dormitory.  
  
Over her shoulder, she said, “Right. I’m taking him to the Hospital Wing.”

* * *

I stood upon my bed, smiling at the three students gathered below me.  
  
“Welcome to this emergency meeting of the Junior Order of the Phoenix. Not many of you could make it, so let’s keep this short. Bellatrix is definitely dead, right?”  
  
“Yup!” Ginevra chirped. “Our spies were really upset about it.”  
  
“No surprise, there,” Neville said. “After all, Rodolphus and Bellatrix were so in love. So very in love.”  
  
“At least their child lives on as a symbol of what’s been lost,” Luna said happily.  
  
I blinked. “Wait, they had a kid? Why was I not informed of this?”  
  
“It’s a secret. The people in on it probably wanted to spare your feelings,” she said. “You have Bellatrix’s eyes, you know.”  
  
“Luna, I am not the lovechild of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange,” I said slowly. “I’m pretty sure we would have noticed that before. Wouldn’t we have?”  
  
“Definitely!” Ginevra said.  
  
Neville said, “Don’t you have something to say. About this situation. And how odd it is.”  
  
I suddenly remembered the purpose of today’s meeting and returned to our script. “Oh. Yes, it’s very strange that Voldemort hasn’t caught our other spies yet.”  
  
Ginevra said, “Especially since they’re our old spy’s husband and brother-in-law. Does he really think they hadn’t notice that she’d switched sides?”  
  
“Well, Dumbledore always said that Voldemort doesn’t understand basic human relationships,” I mused. “Also, he’s an idiot.”  
  
At that moment, I slammed my head against the bedpost as hard as I could.  
  
Well, it wasn’t me, exactly. It was Voldemort. I could feel the faint echoes of his fury as he retreated from my head.  
  
“You have done well,” I said, rubbing at my forehead. “I am mildly grateful to you all for gathering on such short notice.”  
  
“Anytime,” Neville said, grinning. I feared that his bloodthirstiness would soon rival Hermione’s.  
  
Luna giggled. “I was just following the Wrackspurts.”  
  
“I’ll do anything for you,” Ginevra said. Bellatrix was dead, but it seemed that her legacy lived on.  
  
“We probably shouldn’t tell Hermione about this,” I said. “She’ll only get upset, and she’s already busy planning vengeance for Ron.”

* * *

Dumbledore stood as I entered his office, his sleeve swooshing down to cover his blackened hand. Shrugging the invisibility cloak off of my shoulders, I held up a silvery vial.  
  
Dumbledore said, “I didn’t expect you so soon, my boy. Surely Horace didn’t part with his memories easily.”  
  
Dumbledore was right. The manipulation required to convince Slughorn would take far too much time and effort to be worth the trouble. So I’d decided to use _my_ memory of the conversation.  
  
“I am his favorite student,” I said. “Although you probably shouldn’t mention this to him. I had to obliviate him of the incident.”  
  
Dumbledore sighed, clearly disappointed that I was operating independently of his orders. “Was that truly necessary?”  
  
“It was for his own protection,” I said airily, wandering over to the pensieve and uncorking the vial.  
  
We leaned forward, tumbling deep into the basin before thudding onto the floor of the Potions’ classroom. Slughorn was busy telling me that I would make a great Minister of Magic (still true). The man paused thoughtfully when I mentioned the word, Horcrux. “That’s very Dark stuff, Tom. Very Dark.”  
  
“That’s why I asked you about it,” my younger self said.  
  
I meant to imply that he was a knowledgeable and influential pureblood. Depending on the definition he was using, however, he might have translated it to mean something along the lines of: I think you enjoy torturing small animals in your spare time.  
  
Of course, that made no sense in context, so I presume he understood. If he didn’t, he probably would have refuted the statement.  
  
“…A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul,” Slughorn prattled on.  
  
My younger self frowned. “I don’t quite understand how that works, though, sir.”  
  
“Well, you split your soul, you see –“  
  
“No, I understand the mechanics. I meant to say: What is a soul?”  
  
Dumbledore appeared deeply troubled, and Slughorn laughed weakly. “Surely you know what a soul is, Tom.”  
  
Irritation colored Tom Riddle’s tone. “I understand the concept, sir. But this isn’t some vague idea of your mind or emotions or anything like that. It’s a physical object. You can cut it.”  
  
“It’s more of a tear,” Slughorn said.  
  
He nodded. “Tear it, then. So, does it go perfectly in half every time? Or does just a sliver come off? How big _is_ the soul? Let’s say you make, I don’t know, ten Horcruxes.”  
  
“Ten!” Slughorn exclaimed.  
  
Tom continued, “At what point would you run out of soul? What if more of your soul is in the objects than in you? Can you walk around with nearly no soul? Does that have negative consequences?”  
  
I’d actually learned the answer to that last one. The Horcrux-making process isn’t harmful at all. In fact, it hurt less every time, so it probably makes you better.  
  
Slughorn chortled. “The only people who make Horcruxes are insane Dark Lords. No one’s researched this, Tom.”  
  
My younger self softly said, “What a pity.”  
  
Dumbledore and I fell upwards, through the ceiling and back into his office. He turned to me, asking, “Do you understand what you must do?”  
  
“I need to make Horcruxes of my own,” I said firmly.  
  
Dumbledore frowned, reaching over to stroke Fawkes. “Ah, no, I’m afraid not.”  
  
I said, “Are you sure? Slughorn _really_ sold me on it.”  
  
“Quite sure, my boy. You see, Voldemort’s Horcruxes are what’s kept him alive all these years” – Dumbledore scowled – “He may have as many as ten.”  
  
“No he doesn’t,” I said. After a moment, I rephrased. “I mean: NO! I don’t believe it.”  
  
“As much as I wish to think the same, Voldemort has always been a twisted man,” Dumbledore said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have much to think on, and, if you hurry, you might be on time for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”  
  
I strolled towards the door, looking forward to a peaceful hour in the Gryffindor common room.

* * *

Lucius bowed to me before entering the sitting room. He nodded coolly to Severus and Sirius, as well, then said, “I have a new plan, my lord.”  
  
Sirius grinned. “Does this one suck, too?”  
  
“My plans do not _suck_ ,” Lucius hissed, shaking his silver fist at the man.  
  
“To be fair, that flooing idea was atrocious,” I said.  
  
Lucius looked as if he had just sucked on a lemon. He never was any good with constructive criticism. “I assure you, this one is better.”  
  
“Didja check it with Trelawney?” Sirius asked.  
  
“Not yet,” Lucius said.  
  
“Well, what are you waiting for? Unless you want to waste our lord’s time with a plan that’s doomed to failure.”  
  
Lucius stormed away, glaring at anyone who dared to look at him. Severus turned to Sirius, drawling, “You haven’t changed in the slightest, Black. Still the same impudent, attention-seeking, bullying…”  
  
Severus trailed off as Sirius bowed repeatedly to an imaginary audience. A few minutes later, he straightened, grinning. “Yup! That’s me. Sirius Black, at your service.”  
  
“I hate you,” Severus said. Sirius threw an arm around his shoulder, ruffling the other man’s hair. Severus’s wand snapped into his hand.  
  
“Now, may I explain my plan?” Lucius asked from the doorway.  
  
Sirius let go of Snape, playfully shoving him forward. “I dunno. That seemed awfully fast. I bet you didn’t talk to Trelawney, at all. What do you think, Snape?”  
  
“One of these days, I will kill you in your sleep,” Severus said.  
  
“So, you agree with me, then,” Sirius said.  
  
Lucius said, “I moved quickly because I didn’t have to explain anything to her. She already knew and approved. Unless _you’re_ doubting our seer, Black?”  
  
Sirius put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No, never. That woman’s a genius.”  
  
“My lord?” Lucius implored, turning towards me.  
  
I really did want the man to redeem himself after his earlier failures. He was such a good minion. With a thin, lipless smile, I said, “Go ahead, Lucius.”  
  
“I was speaking with the Board of Governors. It seems there’s been a sudden drop in academic performance. Several parents have expressed concern. Therefore, I suggested that we choose a day to allow parents into the school. That way, they can see their children and discuss their issues with his or her head of house.”  
  
“I fail to see how this is relevant to our plans to kidnap Harry Potter,” Severus said.  
  
“I find it completely obvious,” I announced. “Continue, Lucius, for Severus’s sake.”  
  
Lucius smiled weakly. “Of course, my lord. Many of your Death Eaters have children in Hogwarts. It would be perfectly reasonable for them to visit.”  
  
“That’s brilliant!” I declared. “We can even send in Sirius Black.”  
  
“Uh, how’s that work?” Sirius asked.  
  
“You are Harry Potter’s godfather. Or was I misinformed of this?” I asked, sending a warning glare in Lucius’s direction.  
  
“Well, yeah, but I’m pretty sure somebody else is taking care of him, now.”  
  
“You would think that, but you would be wrong,” Severus drawled.  
  
Sirius said, “Oh, come on. They must have given him to Remus.”  
  
Severus said, “He’s a werewolf.”  
  
“Alice Longbottom was his godmother –“  
  
“Tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange.”  
  
“Right. She always did like that sort of thing,” Sirius muttered. “What about the rest of the Potters?”  
  
“They disappeared,” Severus said. “It was very _mysterious_.”  
  
“Probably my fault,” I admitted.  
  
Sirius set his mouth in a firm line. “Dumbledore.”  
  
“Pawned the boy off on Muggles.”  
  
Sirius wrinkled his nose. “Oh, he’s one of _those_ wizards. Who were the Muggles?”  
  
“Lily’s sister and her family,” Severus said.  
  
“That bint?” Sirius barked. “He’d have been better off with you.”  
  
Severus raised an eyebrow. “I am a Death Eater.”  
  
“And a werewolf,” Lucius added. “I think we’ve all heard the rumors.”  
  
“Clearly, Sirius has the best claim to Potter,” I said. “Therefore, it wouldn’t be strange at all for him to go in with the other parents.”  
  
“Totally normal,” Sirius agreed.  
  
Lucius’s eye twitched. “My lord –“  
  
“Leave me, Lucius,” I said, waving the blond away. “I’m scheming.”

* * *

I’d successfully avoided the Hospital Wing for decades, yet there I was mere days after my last visit. I sighed, making my way over to the bed where Ron was clutching a small mountain of letters to his chest. He stopped glaring at Hermione when he caught sight of me.  
  
“Harry!” Ron cried. “Harry, Harry, Harry! You…you gotta help me, mate. You have to take these letters to Romilda Vane.”  
  
I sneered at him. “I’m not your servant. Have Hermione do it.”  
  
“I don’t trust her. She burned the last ones. I think she’s jealous,” he said.  
  
I nodded. “She’s probably still upset about Draco, though I can’t say I understand the attraction. The boy’s a terrible coward. He hasn’t attempted _any_ of my trials.”  
  
“I am not attracted to him. I never was.” Hermione believes that, if she says something enough times, it will suddenly be true.  
  
“So, so, you’ll help me?” Ron asked. Before I could respond, he gushed, “You are the best. My best mate. These are all for my Romillie, ‘cept this one. It’s for Remus.”  
  
Hermione frowned, snatching the letter over Ron’s protests. “Professor Lupin?”  
  
“His life is so haaaaard,” Ron whined. “You should let him join your army. I think he’d like that.”  
  
Hermione groaned. “I don’t have an army.”  
  
I smirked. “Do you spend _all_ of your time in denial, or just most of it?”  
  
“Come on,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “We have letters to deliver.”  
  
As we left the Hospital Wing’s doorway, Hermione set my pile of letters ablaze. I yelped, dropping them to the floor as she said, “I hope he’s better by the time his parents visit.”  
  
“His parents?” I asked.  
  
“For the parent-teacher conferences, of course,” Hermione said primly.  
  
“Right, I think I heard about that,” I said.  
  
“Not many Gryffindor parents are coming. It’s mostly Slytherins.”  
  
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “I hear they still don’t have any furniture.”  
  
“Apparently, some idiot put Sirius Black’s name up as a joke,” she said, lips pursed in disapproval.  
  
“Speaking of idiots, I didn’t expect Ron to still be so out of it. I thought Pomfrey was going to give him the antidote.”  
  
Hermione’s voice was flat. “She did.”  
  
I winced. “Oh.”  
  
Carrying Ron’s letter to Lupin towards the Owlery, she said. “Honestly, how much love potion did Vane give him?”

* * *

The boat slid soundlessly across the lake, not even a ripple left in its path. I peered down at its Inferi inhabitants, looking for anyone I recognized, and exclaimed happily upon spotting Dorcas Meadows. Sitting across from me, Dumbledore seemed to be directing an imaginary symphony with his blackened hand.  
  
“Headmaster?” I said. “I’m glad you took me on this journey and hope that you will continue to do so for all subsequent Horcrux-gathering missions, but…Don’t you have parent-teacher conferences today?”  
  
Dumbledore chuckled. “No, no, parents would only come to me if they had a problem with one of the professors. I have the greatest confidence that such a thing won’t be necessary.”  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re avoiding all the complaints about Snape, then?”  
  
“Dear boy, I’m hunting Horcruxes. I dare say this is the more pressing concern,” Dumbledore said. I sometimes wonder why I am the only person who notices his selfish manipulations.  
  
“You could have done this tomorrow,” I pointed out.  
  
“Perhaps, but then you would have missed class.”  
  
“Or yesterday.”  
  
“And rob you of a well-earned weekend?” he asked, shaking his head dramatically.  
  
We disembarked and approached a potion-filled basin at the island’s center.  
  
Dumbledore looked at me gravely. “I’m afraid that this potion cannot be banished or physically removed. The only way to get to the locket inside is to drink it.”  
  
“I am _not_ doing that!” I shouted, scrambling towards the safety of the Inferi-infested lake.  
  
“Of course not,” Dumbledore assured me with a cold smile. “I am the one who shall drink it. I suspect it will be terribly painful, possibly deadly. You may even have to force-feed me, in the end –“  
  
“Woah, woah, woah,” I said, waving my wand around to get his attention. “That seems pretty extreme.”  
  
I was _not_ going be the sole witness to Albus Dumbledore’s mysterious death. That would raise all sorts of suspicions, and then no one would let me work with children.  
  
“It’s a ritual,” Dumbledore said. “To take a part of Voldemort’s being, I must give a part of mine.”  
  
“Voldemort’s paranoid, though. He probably wouldn’t want to poison someone to death every time he checked on his Horcrux, right?”  
  
Dumbledore nodded slowly. “I suppose.”  
  
“So, he probably put in a back door. A password or something. In Parseltongue.”  
  
I stepped forward, hissing, “ _Slytherin. Slither out.”_  
  
It may seem cheesy, but that’s actually the most complicated pun you can make in Parseltongue.  
  
Dumbledore seemed surprised (almost certainly a ruse) as the emerald potion drained from the basin. “Harry, how did you know the password?”  
  
“There are only three syllables in Parseltongue. It’s mostly a matter of context and intonation.”  
  
“You’re a Parselmouth, then?” he said.  
  
“Yeees,” I said slowly.  
  
Dumbledore leaned forward, peering into my eyes atop his half-moon glasses. “Harry, were you the Heir of Slytherin?”  
  
“No!” I snapped. “I don’t know why everyone thinks that.”  
  
“It’s alright if you were. No one was hurt, and you’ve been a paragon of the Light ever since,” he said.  
  
“I’m not the Heir,” I grumbled, snatching the locket from the now-empty basin.  
  
I looped it around my neck as we rode silently back across the lake. Something bothered me, however. The balance was off, too light and slightly lopsided, possibly a result of its prolonged exposure to the poisonous potion, but still…  
  
I opened the locket, and a taunting note fell out.  
  
Elsewhere, Lord Voldemort felt a sudden and inexplicable flash of rage.

* * *

“You must look at the bright side, my boy.”  
  
I glared at him.  
  
Dumbledore cheerfully continued, “At least Voldemort does not possess the locket.”  
  
That was half of the problem. Voldemort _should_ have the locket, and, by Voldemort, I mean its rightful owner: Me.  
  
“And I didn’t drink a mysterious yet certainly dangerous potion to retrieve a mere decoy.”  
  
I threw the locket at him, and the wizard happily pocketed it.  
  
We came upon the gates of Hogwarts, which were badly dented and hung half-open. The grounds were torn up, and several trees had been slashed with a sword. Families were still hanging around, trading tearful goodbyes or nursing minor wounds. Among them were Ron (telling his family all about the love of his life), Ginevra (whose hair was several inches shorter than earlier that day), and Neville (with a bloody sword slung across his shoulders).  
  
Luna was trying to balance on one foot, but, when she spotted me, her enthusiastic wave sent her tumbling to the grass. “Hello, Harry.”  
  
“Honestly, I leave the grounds for one day and everything ends up destroyed. What in Merlin’s name happened?”

* * *

“WHAT IN MERLIN’S NAME HAPPENED?” I roared, glaring at my bedraggled group of Death Eaters.  
  
Sirius Black shoved Lucius forward, natural since it was his foolish plan that had led to this mess. “My lord, I’m afraid that someone recognized Sirius Black and mobilized an attack.”  
  
“Can’t imagine why. He’s been on the conference list for some time,” Severus drawled.  
  
“It turns out that several members of the Order of the Phoenix have children at the school and were battle-ready,” Lucius said.  
  
“Some kid showed up with the Sword of Gryffindor, which was bloody awesome,” Sirius added.  
  
“I, for one, was shocked,” Severus said. “Longbottom is _failing_ Defense Against the Dark Arts.”  
  
Fenrir Greyback said, “Then there was some Weasley babbling about Werewolf Rights.”  
  
“Mr. Weasley is well known for his idiocy,” Severus said.  
  
“He had some pretty good points, actually. I tried to turn him, but he got me with a stunner,” Fenrir said, rubbing his still-frozen arm.  
  
“That was crazy,” Goyle said. “That Romilda Vane girl sure is lucky.”  
  
“I dunno what that blonde chick was doing, but we still haven’t found Rookwood,” Sirius said.  
  
“…and, then, it turned out that Potter had left on some sort of field trip, so we retreated,” Lucius finished.  
  
“I see,” I murmured, stroking Slytherin’s locket. Earlier, I’d had a sudden urge to check on the Horcrux, only to nearly trip over its pedestal on the way out the door.  
  
I asked, “Sirius, is there any particular reason this locket was sitting in your parlor?”  
  
My right-hand man shrugged. “Maybe you gave it to me for safekeeping?”  
  
The locket jostled slightly at my nod, then settled warmly against my chest. “Right. That does seem like something I would do.”

* * *

“…fifty points to Luna Lovegood. For the most exquisite haircut I’ve seen since my childhood, fifty points to Ginevra Weasley. For identifying Sirius Black and dueling him to a standstill, fifty points to Hermione Granger…”  
  
Apparently, the latest battle had created quite a few heroes. Dumbledore had been going on for twenty minutes. His skin was grey, his eyes dull, yet still he spoke. The students were whispering among themselves, and even the castle was beginning to grow anxious, if the dancing silverware was any indication.  
  
“…For Gryffindor bravery, quick feet, and _sharp_ wit, fifty points to Neville Longbottom…”  
  
The students laughed, clapping Neville on the back. I’m not sure why. Dumbledore was clearly insulting him.  
  
“…For a stunning performance, fifty points to Ronald Weasley. Finally –“  
  
A loud cheer greeted this statement, and Dumbledore paused until it quieted. “For demonstrating foreign language proficiency in a poisonous situation, fifty points to Harry Potter. It appears that Gryffindor has won the Cup. Congratulations to Gryffindor and to everyone who fought in this battle. Now, I can hear your stomachs rumbling from here. So, without further ado –“  
  
“May I speak, Headmaster?” I said, standing up to survey the disappointed crowd.  
  
Dumbledore sighed. “Mr. Potter, you no longer have the authority to add or remove points.”  
  
“That’s fine,” I said with a negligent wave of my wand. I turned to the crowd. “Many of you fought bravely, yesterday. Many more of you hid like firsties, most especially the firsties. Clearly, the Dark Lord is a dangerous foe, willing to hurt children on a whim and ready to take Wizarding Britain under his reign. Keeping that in mind, I would like to announce that I am no longer neutral on the Voldemort Issue.”  
  
I sat down, and the Leaving Feast appeared with a joyous pop.


	17. Chapter 9: Harry Potter vs. Himself (Pt. 1)

The delivery owl drifted into Hermione’s kitchen, buoyed by a summer breeze. While she offered it a knut and a bit of toast, I snagged the _Prophet_.  
  
“That’s rather rude, you know,” she huffed as the owl flew away.  
  
I glanced up from the newspaper, frowning. “You’re the one who asked me to come outside for meals.”  
  
Hermione pouted. “But you stole my paper.”  
  
“You also asked me to keep up with the news,” I said.  
  
With a groan and a muttered, “Too early for this,” Hermione turned her attention to her breakfast.  
  
I hummed thoughtfully as I skimmed the front page. “Looks like Dumbledore died.”  
  
Hermione gasped, dropping her toast, and I continued, “Some sort of wasting sickness. Probably Dragon Pox. I told him to get that arm checked out.”  
  
“Is there a funeral?” she asked, all sniffles and crocodile tears.  
  
“Doesn’t say” – I spotted several familiar names in the article below it – “Death Eaters have taken over the Ministry, too.”  
  
Hermione’s eyes widened, all attempts at grief forgotten. “WHAT?!”  
  
“It doesn’t explicitly say that, but it’s pretty heavily implied,” I assured her. “Also, Snape’s the new headmaster.”  
  
Hermione pushed her plate away. “Oh, Harry, this is awful.”  
  
“I know! Slytherin will win the House Cup for sure,” I said.  
  
“Not that!” she snapped. “Voldemort has control over Hogwarts. He hates Muggleborns –“  
  
“Allegedly.”  
  
“– and he _despises_ you, and I’m your Muggleborn best friend. There’s absolutely no way we can return to Hogwarts. How are we supposed to prepare for our NEWTs?”  
  
I blinked. “Really? _That’s_ your problem with this? I assumed you were talking about the murder.”  
  
She buried her face in her hands and seemed to be having some difficulty breathing.  
  
“It’ll be fine,” I reassured her. “I just turned seventeen. We grab Ron, go on the run, and finish the task Dumbledore set for us.”  
  
Hermione peeked upwards, eyes alight with curiosity. “Task?”  
  
“There are five items necessary to defeat Voldemort,” I said. “We have to gather them all and use them in a Dark ritual.”  
  
It was time to collect my Horcruxes. Once Voldemort fell, who knew what would happen to them?  
  
I continued, “They include the Gaunt ring, Voldemort’s pet snake, Ravenclaw’s Diadem, Hufflepuff’s Cup –“  
  
“Those are lost artifacts, Harry,” Hermione said. “People have been searching for them for generations.”  
  
I snorted. “Voldemort found them. How hard can it be? We don’t even have to find the last one. He’s currently wearing Slytherin’s locket.”  
  
“So we’ll need to get it off of his neck, then?” Hermione asked.  
  
“Not a problem,” I said cheerfully. “If he has it, then it’ll be there when we need it. He’s actually helping us by keeping it close because he is arrogant and insane.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but smiled. “That makes thing easier for us, I suppose. We’ll need someplace to stay –“  
  
“Way ahead of you,” I assured her.  
  
“Not the trunk,” she said.  
  
“No, not that. It’s better than the trunk. I’ll tell you about it once we’ve grabbed Ron.”  
  
I brought my trunk out from the guest bedroom. I held a hand out to Hermione, but she refused it with a tight smile. “You go ahead. I need to pack and have a talk with my parents.”  
  
With a quick wave, I apparated to the Weasleys’ hovel.

* * *

Arriving at the Burrow, Hermione carefully stepped around my trunk, which was spewing a pearly mist. Soon, I would need to add fairy wings to my cauldron of Felix Felicis.  
  
“Hi guys,” Hermione said, nodding to Ron, Ginevra, and me before turning to the man beside us. “Nice to see you again, Professor.”  
  
Lupin smiled at her. “I’m not a professor anymore. Please, call me Remus.”  
  
Something deep inside Hermione exploded at the thought of addressing a former authority figure as an equal, and she devolved into stuttered protests.  
  
Ron interjected, “Lupin’s working with the werewolves now.”  
  
Lupin sighed. “They’re not working with me, though. Not after all the Werewolf Rights legislation that just got pushed through.”  
  
I snorted. “It’s about time, really. They were first suggested decades ago.”  
  
Lupin said, “I’m surprised you all know so much about this.”  
  
“Long-standing interest,” I said.  
  
“My ex-girlfriend was really into it.” I think Ron was blushing, although it was hard to tell with the potions fumes obscuring his face.  
  
With an arrogant tilt to her chin, Hermione declared, “Everyone should care about oppression.”  
  
“I don’t actually care that much. I just like spending time with Harry,” Ginevra clarified.  
  
“That’s horrible,” I said. “Your brother is a werewolf.”  
  
“I am not!” Ron wailed.  
  
Lupin slinked away during the ensuing argument. The whole incident was terribly upsetting. I was almost certain that Ron had come to terms with his lycanthropy. Giving up, I turned to Hermione. “You aren’t going to believe this. Dumbledore got us presents.”  
  
I was right. Hermione didn’t believe me at all. “Harry,” she said delicately. “Dumbledore is dead.”  
  
I beamed. “I know. I think I like him better this way. He never did this when he was alive.”  
  
Hermione paled. “Um…”  
  
“He left us stuff,” Ron said. “Like, inheritance.”  
  
“Us?” Hermione said.  
  
“The three of us. Not Ginevra,” I said. “Hardly surprising. He’s never liked her.”  
  
Ginevra pouted. “Really? I don’t think we ever met.”  
  
“That explains it, then,” I said.  
  
Hermione frowned. “I’ve barely spoken to him, myself. Have you, Ron?”  
  
Ron shook his head.  
  
Her brow wrinkled. “What did he give us?”  
  
“You got a book” – I handed it to her – “because everyone knows you like reading, Ron got Dumbledore’s wand, and I got a signet ring.”  
  
Ron swished the elder wood wand, causing weak, black sparks to fall out, and I flashed the Gaunt ring at her. Ron said, “The stuff came with a note, but Harry wouldn’t let me read it.”  
  
The note had said something along the lines of:

  
  
_Harry,_   
  
_Do not wear this ring. It is a Horcrux and will kill you. I’m speaking from personal experience. DO NOT PUT ON THE RING._   
  
_Good luck,_   
  
_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_

  
  
“He said that the ring’s one of our special items and wished us luck.”  
  
“Why’d you burn the note, then?” Ron asked.  
  
“It’s sensitive information, Ron,” I shouted. “If we keep it around, then anyone could find out this ring’s importance!”  
  
Ron blushed with shame. On second thought, that might have been the slowly reddening mist. I made a note to check on that potion soon.  
  
“You shouldn’t take him on your trip,” Ginevra said. “I’ll be a better Ron.”  
  
“Ginevra, we’ve been over this. We need your spy network.”  
  
Also, I don’t like her that much.  
  
“But –“  
  
I raised a hand, though I’m not sure if she saw it in the thickening mist. “Enough. Only Hermione and Ron shall accompany me to Potter Manor.”  
  
Hermione said, “Potter Manor?”  
  
“My ancestral home, hidden for all these years,” I said.  
  
“…You’ve never seen it, have you?” Hermione said.  
  
I paused. “Well, no.”  
  
“Are you _sure_ you have a manor?”  
  
“Don’t all Pureblood families have manors?”  
  
“No, Harry,” Hermione said. “That fad occurred during the twelfth century when wizarding families were concerned about possibly going under siege. That’s why they have such extensive warding, and their larger grounds can be put to use for agricultural purposes. The Potter family isn’t nearly old enough for that.”  
  
Ron asked, “What about my manor?”  
  
“Lost to gambling debts. The Malfoys own it now,” Hermione said.  
  
My jaw fell open, and red mist drifted inside. It tasted vaguely of cinnamon. “Is _that_ why you hate each other so much?”  
  
Ron said, “I guess. Mostly it’s ‘cause they’re gits.”  
  
We were silent for a few moments, contemplating the ephemeral nature of history. At least, that’s what I was thinking about. I’m fairly certain Hermione was, too. I don’t know about the Weasleys.  
  
Hermione interrupted our musings, “Harry, if there isn’t a Potter Manor. Then where are we going to stay?”  
  
“The trunk, of course,” I said.  
  
My cauldron of Felix Felicis promptly exploded, knocking the trunk over and sending a rush of black smoke towards us.  
  
Ginevra giggled. “I feel loads better about staying behind!”

* * *

I woke up, muttering, “I always hated that name.”  
  
Ron and Hermione were still asleep. The girl hugged her wand like a teddy bear while the Weasley curled into a ball, as if to take up as little space as possible.  
  
The ceiling slid open to reveal starlight, and, dragging my cloak behind me, I trudged upwards. I waved it closed again as I settled invisibly onto the grass and said, “Voldemort.”  
  
Pop! Pop!  
  
Two Death Eaters arrived, waving their wands around wildly in search of rebels. The taller one frowned, “There’s no one here.”  
  
“There’s gotta be,” the second grunted.  
  
“Maybe the Taboo machine’s acting up.”  
  
The shorter one jerked his head towards my home. “Or maybe they’re in that trunk there.”  
  
“It seems pretty small,” he mused.  
  
The other said, “Maybe it’s one a’ those magically expanded trunks.”  
  
“I wouldn’t go in there if it was!” he cried. “My cousin had one of those. The thing broke and we had to bury him in it!”  
  
The second snorted. “I know. I was at the funeral, too.”  
  
“Maybe this is a test,” the taller said slowly, “from the Dark Lord. Maybe he’s trying to trick us.”  
  
“Probly,” the shorter said. “Bet we oughta take the trunk, though.”  
  
“I wouldn’t be so sure. It could be booby-trapped.”  
  
“We can’t just head back,” he snapped. “I mean, _somebody_ around here said Voldemort!”  
  
Pop! Pop!  
  
The two earlier Death Eaters raised their hands while their compatriots scanned the clearing for enemies.  
  
“Woah, woah, don’t shoot. This moron here said Voldemort –“  
  
They all groaned. Pop! Pop!  
  
One of the men from the second group raised a hand for silence. “Okay. Clearly somebody said Vol…the word that nobody’s allowed to say.”  
  
They all breathed a sigh of relief. He continued, “Let’s all agree to leave and not come back to this spot for a few minutes, alright?”  
  
The Death Eaters nodded, popping away.  
  
I wandered back into the trunk, rousing Ron and Hermione. “Fair warning: We aren’t allowed to say Voldemort, anymore. So, if you really want to say Voldemort, I’d suggest you say Voldemort now because, in about five minutes, we have to stop saying Voldemort.”

* * *

It was a plain barn owl, brown and plump. A ribbon on its ankle identified it as a rented bird from Diagon Alley. It dropped the letter at my feet, not waiting for a response, and didn’t even twitch as it passed through Grimmauld Place’s wards.  
  
“Wingardium Leviosa,” I said, the letter flicking upwards and unfolding in front of me. It read:  
  
 _Dear Lord Voldemort,_  
  
 _You may wonder why I, Harry Potter, have written you this letter. There are a few reasons for this._  
  
 _First, I would like to inform you that my associate has brewed a cauldron of polyjuice potion, while I have kidnapped several of your Death Eaters. Further, we just followed this owl to your base._  
  
 _By the time you’ve finished this letter, it will be too late._  
  
 _Love,_  
  
 _Harry Potter_

* * *

I leapt out of bed, humming merrily to myself. Hermione, for some inexplicable reason, immediately began panicking. She nearly tripped over our lamp (better known as Trelawney’s prophecy orb) on her way towards me. Funny. I thought she’d finally relaxed about sleeping in the trunk.  
  
“Harry, why are you so happy?” she asked.  
  
“You-Know-Who’s killing his own people!” I exclaimed.  
  
Ron groaned, dragging himself into a sitting position. “What did you do, mate?”  
  
“I sent him a letter. He thinks we’re breaking into his base. He’ll probably calm down in a few days, but then I’ll send him _another_ letter,” I said. “Come to think of it, we should probably break into Gringotts while he’s distracted.”  
  
Ron let out a strangled squeak, and Hermione weakly asked, “Sorry?”  
  
“That’s where Bellatrix put Hufflepuff’s Cup,” I said.  
  
“Okay, this is…” – Hermione ran a hand through her hair, her face gaunt under the orb’s bluish light – “Okay. We can do this. Let me get the Felix Felicis.”  
  
She was clearly delusional with fear. I frowned. “Hermione, there isn’t any Felix Felicis. You made me stop brewing it for some inane reason.”  
  
“Not _that_ Felix Felicis,” Hermione said. “I’m talking about the vial I got from Slughorn for brewing the best Amortentia.”  
  
Ron said, “You’ve still got that?”  
  
She snorted, rummaging through her purse. “Of course. It’s not like I just used it the day I got it. That would be highly irresponsible.”  
  
To be fair, that _was_ how I found the Chamber of Secrets in four hours by skipping five hints. My original Sixth Year was quite the adventure, though it could never compare to Third.  
  
“There it is,” she cried, pulling out a golden vial. It shimmered in the light of the prophecy orb.

* * *

“Hermione, are you still mad?” I whined, following my best minion through the busy London streets.  
  
After several tense moments, Ron answered for her, “I’m pretty sure she is.”  
  
I tossed the Cup of Hufflepuff between my hands, enjoying the familiar warmth of its golden sides. “Come on! We got the Cup, and everything went great…I know they’re called the Unforgivables, but you can still forgive me. Preferably in the next thirty seconds or so.”  
  
“Get in the trunk,” she snarled.  
  
I blinked, suddenly noticing the trunk propped against a lamppost. Right, Hermione had cast a Notice-Me-Not charm on it. I followed her inside. “I mean, really, would Moody have taught us the incantations if he didn’t expect us to use –“  
  
She whirled around at the bottom of the staircase, wand aimed at my head. “You cast the Cruciatius Curse.”  
  
“On a Death Eater,” I said.  
  
Her chin trembled. Typical Hermione: only accepting violent retribution when she does it. “It was cruel and horrible and unnecessary –“  
  
“I contest that,” I said. “You were taking Felix Felicis. If it wasn’t necessary to our success, the potion wouldn’t have let it happen.”  
  
“I refuse to believe that _torture_ was necessary. There were any number of options,” she said.  
  
“Come to think of it, isn’t that potion supposed to give you your perfect day?” – my eyes widened – “Hermione, you don’t actually _like_ that sort of thing? In fact, you’re probably still under its effects. You _want_ this argument!”  
  
“No, she doesn’t,” Ron said.  
  
Hermione smiled. “Thank you, Ron. It’s nice to see you have _some_ faith in me.”  
  
That was probably the Felix Felicis working.  
  
He turned red. “I know I’ve fallen for a lot of stupid arguments and things, but I think I know you pretty well, ‘Mione.”  
  
She flushed and glanced away, probably contemplating how her entire life was a ruse constructed by the Department of Mysteries. They were silent for some time, not even looking in my direction. It irked me.  
  
“I know you’re angry, but you don’t have to ignore me,” I said, the Cup’s handle clenched in my fist.  
  
“Yes, we’re angry,” Hermione said, pulling Ron into her mutiny.  
  
I shook my head, frustrated by her disloyalty and hypocrisy. “I don’t know why this is suddenly a problem. Nobody cared when Krum cast the Cruciatius.”  
  
She gaped, surprised by my brilliant arguing tactics. “He was under the Imperius.”  
  
I snorted. “Oh, sure he was. Everyone’s under the Imperius. Tell me, Hermione, who are all these wizards casting the Imperius? Maybe we need to accept that the people we’re looking for are the ones crucioing people.”  
  
“So, you, then?” Ron said.  
  
I shook my head, setting Hufflepuff’s Cup on the coffee table. “No, of course not. I can’t be held accountable for my actions. After all, _I_ was under the Imperius.”

* * *

Another letter sat upon my desk. I glared at the parchment hard enough to burn a hole through it, then frantically covered it with my cloak to smother the resulting flames. A reparo returned it to a legible state, and, slumping into my throne, I read:  
  
 _Dear Lord Voldemort,_  
  
 _I see that you have once again failed to catch myself and my companions, despite killing several of your Death Eaters. I’ve noticed that this happens a lot with you, and I am compelled to ask if you just really like killing your own people._  
  
 _Regardless, my sense of fair play urges me to once again inform you of our visit tomorrow._  
  
 _Love,_  
  
 _Harry Potter_  
  
 _P.S. I would like to assure you that I shall not be masquerading as Lucius Malfoy._

* * *

“You’ve killed him,” Hermione whispered, eyes wide. “I know he’s a bigot and probably a murderer, but I can’t believe you just consigned a man to death.”  
  
“That does seem pretty nasty, mate,” Ron agreed.  
  
I had no idea what she was talking about. “Hermione, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Lucius Malfoy!” she cried. “You just set him up to be killed.”  
  
“No, I didn’t. I specifically said that I _wouldn’t_ be him. He’s probably the only one who’s safe.”  
  
Hermione huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “Harry, you singled him out in a clearly sarcastic manner.”  
  
“You’re overthinking things,” I said.  
  
“Uh, that’s what I think, too,” Ron said, “and won’t You-Know-Who overthink it?”  
  
“That’s possible, but, then, he’ll probably just decide that I _want_ him to kill Lucius Malfoy for some reason and refuse to touch him.”  
  
“But, what if he kills him just to be safe?”  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll ask him.”  
  
Ron gaped. “You’ll what?”  
  
I raised a hand to silence the Weasley as I yanked Voldemort’s consciousness into my head. “Yes or no question: Are you planning to kill Lucius Malfoy?”  
  
After a few moments’ listening, I said, “I’m well aware that I told you I wouldn’t be him. No, I don’t retract that statement.”  
  
I turned to my minions. “He said he wasn’t going to kill Lucius. Clearly, I was correct and…Why, yes, that is the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff. I’m not sure why you’re surprised about this; Bellatrix has always been one of ours. On that note, have you seen your Diary anywhere recently? No reason. Just curious.”  
  
Voldemort slammed my head against the wall, then fled back to his body. Hermione was the first to find her voice. “Were you actually talking to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”  
  
“I wasn’t talking to myself” — I paused for a moment, realizing that I was lying — “Regardless, he’s gone now. And he’s _really_ upset about something.”

* * *

HOW COULD I NOT REMEMBER WHERE I’D LEFT MY SOUL?!  
  
I struggled to calm myself, pacing Grimmauld Place’s dining room. The table had been transfigured into a throne, and the room cleared for an emergency meeting of my Inner Circle. Surely, one of them had my boyhood diary.  
  
My eyes swept over the group, smaller now than it had ever been. It was for the better, I knew, cleared of traitors and spies. I turned to the most loyal of them all, Severus Snape. “Severus, did I ever give you a Dark artifact to watch over for me?”  
  
Severus shook his head. “No, my lord. I’m afraid I was living in the same castle as Dumbledore. The risk was too great.”  
  
“Of course,” I said. “Thank you for poisoning him, by the way.”  
  
“It was my pleasure,” he drawled.  
  
“I presume you were in a similar situation, Hagrid?”  
  
Hagrid nodded, silent as always. Some might have found this suspicious, but I knew how invested he was in our success. After all, Giants’ Rights was a founding principle of the Death Eaters.  
  
“Sirius, did I ever give _you_ a small, black book?” I inquired.  
  
Sirius laughed. “Nah. You gave me a necklace.”  
  
My hands unconsciously drifted to the locket around my neck. “Yes, I suppose I did…What about you, Lucius?”  
  
Lucius said, “No, my lord. You’ve given me nothing at all. May…may I please go?”  
  
I frowned. “Why?”  
  
“I need to brush my hair,” he said.  
  
“Didn’t you just do that?”  
  
He shook his head, terribly mussing his blond locks. “Yes, but I need to do it again.”  
  
With a chuckled, I said, “You may go in a moment. Your son was trying to open the Room of Requirement, wasn’t he?”  
  
“Yes, my lord, although he gave up on it some time ago.”  
  
“Tell him to complete whatever trials are necessary,” I said.  
  
He nodded, increasingly pale as I delayed his time with a hairbrush. “Of course, my lord.”  
  
“Also, alert your sources in Hogwarts that we’re moving in. This location is no longer secure, and Trelawney has informed me that the castle will be a fortunate place for us.

* * *

Having houseguests, I found, could be rather tiring. Gone were the days of lounging in my trunk, brewing a few cauldrons of Felix Felicis and plotting against Dumbledore. Whenever silence lingered and I began to fall asleep under my invisibility cloak, someone invariably interrupted the peace.  
  
Usually Ron.  
  
The redhead groaned. “Are you still reading that book?”  
  
I dragged my invisibility cloak off of my head in order to glare at him, and Hermione glanced up from _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ , lips pursed. “It’s very informative –“  
  
“It’s for kids!” he shouted.  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Informative about cultural standards, Ronald. The morality tales told to children reveal a great deal about a society’s values.”  
  
Ron blinked. “Wha?”  
  
“Morality tales, Ronald,” she said. “They teach Wizarding children what wizards think are important lessons.”  
  
“For instance,” I said. “The moral of _The Fountain of Fair Fortune_ is that the magic was within you all along. The moral of _The Warlock’s Hairy Heart_ is that you shouldn’t care what anyone else thinks of you. And the moral of _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ is that you should be invisible at all times.”  
  
Hermione frowned at me, as she often does. “That isn’t the moral at all. It’s that you can’t cheat death.”  
  
“Really, Hermione? Did you even read the tale? It clearly states that the youngest brother spends his entire life under an invisibility cloak, only taking it off when he wanted to die. I’m not sure why he would have wanted that, though,” I mused, pulling my cloak tightly around my shoulders.  
  
Ron laughed. “Probly because he spent his whole life under an invisibility cloak.”  
  
Hermione’s face reddened. “He did not –“  
  
“D’ya think he had kids under there?” Ron said.  
  
“That is disgusting and –“  
  
“He probably kept his entire family under the cloak, to prevent vengeance from Death,” I said. It was what I would do.  
  
Ron said, “I bet they’re still there.”  
  
“IT WAS A METAPHOR!” Hermione shouted. Her voice echoed throughout the trunk, and Ron paled, clearly reminded of his mother’s Howlers.  
  
“Did the story _say_ it was a metaphor?” I asked.  
  
“Of course not,” she snapped.  
  
“Then how do you _know_?” I said.  
  
“Starting to sound like a Slytherin, mate,” Ron said.  
  
I brushed him off. “Actually, I’m sounding more like Dumbledore.”  
  
“Yes,” Hermione said stiffly, “and he’s the one who left me the book. I think it might be some sort of clue.”  
  
I snorted, falling back into bed with a thump. “He’s obviously manipulating us. He’s set us up on an adventure, and we won’t understand half of it until he explains afterwards.”  
  
“He can’t, though,” Ron said. “He’s dead.”  
  
I rolled onto my side, mumbling, “He’s got a portrait.”

* * *

It didn’t take long to settle into my new office. I was perfectly content to keep Dumbledore’s knickknacks and expensive pensieve. I wouldn’t have minded the phoenix, either, but it had disappeared sometime before my arrival. I took a lemon drop from Dumbledore’s tin, rolling it between my fingers. After many years, I finally had the chance to test it for poison.  
  
Severus Snape swept into my office. “It appears that the students are rebelling.”  
  
“Why?” I asked.  
  
“Because we are Death Eaters.”  
  
“I’m not an idiot,” I snapped. “…but I will admit to continued confusion. I haven’t done anything worth rebelling against.”  
  
“Dumbledore has filled the Gryffindors’ heads with ridiculous notions,” Severus said.  
  
“Right, he always did favor them.” I never understood where he got that bias. Dumbledore went to Durmstrang.  
  
“The Hufflepuffs are following them, as they always do,” he said, “and most of the Ravenclaws haven’t even noticed.”  
  
“And the Slytherins?” I asked.  
  
Severus smirked. “Passive aggressive, but that’s probably because you killed their parents.”  
  
“Potter killed some of them,” I said modestly.  
  
“ _Potter_ did not publically take credit for their deaths.”  
  
In retrospect, I probably should have taken Bellatrix off of my Public Relations team prior to her revelation as a traitor.  
  
“Have you tried taking House Points?”  
  
Severus nodded. “I did, but they ran out.”  
  
I snorted. “There’s your problem. You lose all your power when they see they can’t win.”  
  
“That’s probably why they’re so upset,” Severus drawled. “Also, the Carrows have been crucioing First Years.”  
  
I’d expected the Carrows to be incompetent, but this was actively hurting the learning environment. Clearly, they would have to go.  
  
I scowled, waving Severus away with a request to send up Sirius and the Malfoys.  
  
They arrived quickly. The Malfoys were pale and nervous, but Sirius retained the relaxed demeanor that had earned him his place at my right hand. I smiled, Lucius flinched, and I smiled wider in response. “Sirius, would you like to be the Muggle Studies professor?”  
  
He shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”  
  
“Then I shall be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” I declared, staring dreamily at the ceiling.  
  
“That’s a great idea!” Sirius said.  
  
Lucius, displaying his pessimistic nature, said, “Are you…sure about this, my lord?”  
  
Sirius smirked. “What? You think he’ll be a bad professor?”  
  
“No, of course not,” Lucius said. “I was simply concerned that he might be distracted from other goals. Like running Wizarding Britain.”  
  
“You underestimate me,” I said coldly.  
  
“I think you’ll be brilliant, my lord!” the younger Malfoy blurted out.  
  
I chuckled, rising from my desk to approach him. “Ah, Draco. I’ve been meaning to speak with you. How go the trials?”  
  
Draco peered intently at his toes. “I’m, uh…stuck.”  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “Stuck?”  
  
“I can’t get into the Girls’ Dormitory for the next key piece. There are wards.”  
  
I clenched my wand in annoyance. “For Merlin’s sake, you’re a wizard! Turn yourself into a girl. I can think of three ways off the top of my head.”  
  
Draco looked pale. “Oh…”  
  
“Or you could befriend a girl and have her do it” – I waved my wand around for emphasis – “Then you’ll find out about friendship or something. What’s important is that you find a lesson and learn it.”  
  
“Th-thank you,” he said, voice trembling along with the rest of his body.  
  
“You can leave, now,” I said.  
  
The Malfoy clone scurried away, likely planning to join his classmates’ rebellion. I shook my head and turned my attention back to Dumbledore’s lemon drops.  
  
  


A Bird’s Eye View: Fawkes POV

I landed upon the Apprentice’s shoulder. The muscle beneath me was tensed, the shiny sword raised for battle. It pleased my eyes, and I sang in support. The Red one covered her ears, revealing her corruption to the world. But the others did not understand this.  
  
Evil filled their nest. It was in the Apprentice’s nature to fight it. I am the same.  
  
For now, I would aid him. Lunge at the evil ones. Claw out their eyes.  
  
But the Apprentice did not need me. He was too noble. He would do the right thing without being watched.  
  
My Old Roost was dead and my New Roost gone. The New Roost would return, as he always did. When he came, I would be there to ensure that he denied his darker nature.  
  
I feared what he would do if I was not there. Watching.


	18. Chapter 9: Harry Potter vs. Himself (Pt. 2)

Ron woke slowly. He found himself unable to rise and meet the day, partially because he was still drowsy and partially because he was tied up in the middle of our trunk.  
  
“G-guys?”  
  
I took a leisurely walk around his captured form. My invisibility cloak ensured that he heard only measured footsteps and an eerie voice. “I always knew that you would betray us. Did you really believe that we wouldn’t find out, Ron?”  
  
“Find out what?”  
  
“You’ve been sneaking out of the trunk, carefully avoiding my traps. But you were foolish. Hermione saw you returning. This wouldn’t have been a problem, of course, if you had been invisible.”  
  
In her ominous, shadowy corner, Hermione groaned. “You do have to take off the cloak sometime.”  
  
“Really? That’s what the youngest brother did, and then he died,” I spat.  
  
Hermione stepped into the light, glaring at me instead of Ron. “ _Anyway,_ if you have an explanation, Ronald, now would be a good time.”  
  
“I know you can’t see it right now, but my wand is pointing right at you,” I helpfully added.  
  
“I’ve been sending letters,” he said.  
  
“ _Traitorous_ letters?”  
  
“Hush, Harry,” Hermione said. “Who are you sending letters to?”  
  
“Uh…Fenrir Greyback,” Ron muttered.  
  
“I knew it! Also, who is that?”  
  
“A vicious werewolf who follows You-Know-Who,” Hermione said, frowning.  
  
“We’re sort of pen pals, now,” Ron said, struggling against his ropes (or possibly attempting to shrug). “He’s got some really good points, actually.”  
  
Hermione gaped at him. “He bites children!”  
  
“I said _some_. Also, he only went after Wizarding kids ‘cause he wanted to change cultural perceptions about werewolves by forcing prominent Purebloods to face the issue” – Ron paused for a moment – “I think that’s a quote.”  
  
“But Remus –“  
  
“I’m writing to him, too,” Ron said. “Also my Mum. She worries, and I don’t want any more Howlers.”  
  
I nodded. “She almost got us killed that one time.”  
  
Ron grinned, either at my remark or Hermione’s gullible decision to free him from the ropes. “I know you don’t really understand parents, Harry, but she’s really stressed out about all this. Especially pretending I have Dragon Pox. I bet Hermione’s parents are going barmy, too.”  
  
Hermione peered intently down at her wand, perhaps checking it for tampering. “Actually, they don’t remember that they have a daughter.”  
  
“Yeah, the Dursleys did that sometimes,” I commiserated.  
  
“Harry, that’s horrible.”  
  
“Maybe for you. I thought it was great.”  
  
Tears filled Hermione’s eyes. “It…it isn’t like that! They aren’t abusive like your family. I erased their memories.”  
  
Ron’s eyes widened. “Why would you…?”  
  
“They wouldn’t have gone to Australia if they knew I was still in England, but they simply aren’t safe here.”  
  
“Hermione…that’s evil,” I said.  
  
The brunette whirled around to glare at me, wand raised. “Will you stop saying things like that?!”  
  
“But it is. You turned them into completely different people so that you could ignore their explicit wishes. Hermione, you murdered your parents.” Even I didn’t murder _all_ of my parents.  
  
“I’ll set them right afterwards,” she said.  
  
“Unless you die,” Ron said.  
  
It was as if her vocal cords had been hit with a shriveling curse, leaving her voice small and childlike. “You guys can do it, then.”  
  
“I’m terrible at memory charms, and do you really trust Ron with your parents’ brains?” I asked.  
  
“Hey!” Ron said. “…But you’re sort of right. I don’t know anything about memory charms.”  
  
Hermione desperately tried to justify her despicable act. “It…it’s better this way. They’re safe from You-Know-Who.”  
  
Her reasoning baffled me. “Hermione, the Death Eaters don’t care about your parents. How would they even know where they live? I’ve spent a couple of summers there, and even I don’t know where they live.”  
  
“But they could still be caught in a raid or something,” she mumbled, hugging herself tightly.  
  
“That seems fairly unlikely,” I said.  
  
We were silent for some time. Eventually, Ron said, “What do we do now?”  
  
“We haven’t captured Nagini yet,” Hermione said. “Separating her from You-Know-Who could be difficult.”  
  
“That is a priority,” I agreed. “First, however, we have to go to Australia to fix Hermione’s terrible mistake.”

* * *

Though our long and dangerous mission into the outback was successful, Hermione had retreated into our trunk to sob into her pillow. “I’m evil. I’m actually evil.”  
  
Ron was above us, comforting the Grangers and – if the situation called for it – obliviating them of Hermione’s confession. That left me to calm down the most vicious member of our trio. “So…you’re evil.”  
  
She wailed, burying her face further into the downy fabric. I continued, “That’s not a bad thing. Plenty of people are evil, and they live perfectly good lives. Like Dumbledore.”  
  
Hermione lifted her head, watching me with blank, red eyes. “Dumbledore.”  
  
“Yes, he was best friends with Grindelwald when they were kids, but then Dumbledore killed him,” I said. “He didn’t kill any of his other friends, however, which shows his great self-restraint.”  
  
“There’s something wrong with you,” she said into her pillow.  
  
I glanced around, casually checking for listeners, before admitting. “Hermione, much like you, my nature is also somewhat evil. But I channel that evil into constructive aims like murdering the Dark Lord. We should probably get back to that, by the way. It’s been a few weeks.”  
  
“But what if _I’m_ the next Dark Lord?”  
  
“I don’t think You-Know-Who will like that very much. You’ll have to kill him anyway,” I said.  
  
Hermione giggled, smiling up at me. I don’t know what was funny about that, but I took it as a good sign.  
  
I continued, “You’ll be fine so long as you listen to your friends when they tell you that you’re committing an atrocity. Then, later, when you’re the Dark Lady of Wizarding Britain, you reward them by making them the Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

* * *

Sirius Black twirled his wand between his fingers, eyes making a lazy sweep over the panicked denizens of Diagon Alley. Timid shopkeepers peered at the group of Death Eaters from windows and doorways, a woman screeched and flailed under the Cruciatius, and Nagini sprawled in the sun, a humanoid bulge in her stomach.  
  
Black groaned. “Right, five minutes and I’m already bored. Any chance we can head back?”  
  
Voldemort said, “I’m surprised at you, Black. I distinctly recall your enthusiasm for raids.”  
  
He shrugged. “Eh, I’ve got papers to grade and six kids in for detention tonight. Having a job kinda sucks.”  
  
There was a loud groan from inside Nagini. At that moment, I stepped into view, and Voldemort hissed, “Potter.”  
  
“Hi, Tom,” I said, approaching the Dark Lord and his right-hand man.  
  
He sneered at me. “Don’t call me by that name.”  
  
“You’ve made it impossible to say your old name, and I can’t just call you You-Know-Who. That would be silly.”  
  
Voldemort thoughtfully tapped his chin with his wand. “You could call me ‘my lord.’”  
  
“Well, I suppose I could, but that would be untrue.”  
  
“Show some respect for your betters!” a Death Eater shouted as he jabbed his wand at me. “Imperio.”  
  
For a moment, there was a distortion in my vision and everything seemed very bright. It ended as the Death Eater barked, “Bow to him.”  
  
I gave the man a bored look. “Crucio.”  
  
He fell, wailing, to the ground. I smirked. “You should show respect for _your_ betters.”  
  
Voldemort laughed, and Black also cracked an uneasy grin. “That was a good one. So, have you come here to protect these miserable excuses for witches and wizards?”  
  
“Actually, no,” I said. “I just needed to grab something.”  
  
Red light filled the alleyway. The Death Eaters, shopkeepers, shoppers and even I watched, stunned, as the light receded and Ron hauled Nagini up by the neck. Hermione, shaking herself into action, grabbed the snake’s tail and apparated them away. With a cheerful wave towards Voldemort and his right hand man, I followed.

* * *

“ _Where am I?”_ Nagini hissed several hours later. Ron’s stunner was truly astounding.  
  
 _“You’re at your new home,”_ I said. _“Welcome to the trunk. You’re following me, now.”_  
  
The snake backed up. _“Why?”_  
  
 _“I can talk to you.”_  
  
She sniffed anxiously at the air. _“That is true, but you are not my master.”_  
  
I raised an eyebrow. _“Are you sure?”_  
  
 _“…Less so now.”_ Nagini said and slithered towards my feet. I patted her head.  
  
“You’re taking the piss out of me,” Ron said.  
  
Hermione frowned. “How did you just do that?”  
  
“I explained that I was the superior Parselmouth,” I said. “She argued, but soon realized that I was right and has endeavored to do exactly as I say…I think we can all learn a lot from Nagini.”  
  
Ron laughed, still daydreaming about our successful raid. “I can’t believe you were actually bait for once!”  
  
I smirked. “I was more of a distraction.”  
  
“And you completely ignored that Imperius.”  
  
“Then crucioed the caster,” Hermione said, still judgmental despite coming to terms with her own evil, “and I suppose you’re going to say that you have an insane amount of willpower because you’re the descendant of Merlin or something.”  
  
I chuckled. “No, no, there’s a trick to it, actually. You can’t be affected by two Imperiuses at once.”  
  
Ron blinked. “What?”  
  
I attempted to lower my speaking to Weasley levels. “If you’re under the Imperius from one person, then a new Imperius won’t make you do things.”  
  
Hermione nibbled her lip. “You were under the Imperius?”  
  
“I _am_ under the Imperius,” I said, pointing my wand at my temple.  
  
“You…why?”  
  
I stroked Nagini, who was currently curled around my leg, squeezing affectionately. “To protect me from the Imperius, of course. I just order myself to do whatever I want, so it doesn’t really affect me.”  
  
Ron said, “So, when you said that you couldn’t be blamed for crucioing that guy ‘cause you were under the Imperius, you weren’t joking?”  
  
“Why would I joke about something like that?”  
  
Hermione’s eyes were wide with wonder and admiration. “Harry, how long have you been doing this?”  
  
“On and off since I learned about the spell.”  
  
“Three years?” she squeaked.  
  
More like sixty. “…Yes.”  
  
“That cannot be healthy,” she muttered. “Take it off, please.”  
  
I did so, and Hermione stole my wand.

* * *

The sink unfolded, revealing the shadowed and slimy entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. Draco Malfoy peered into the darkness, keeping his feet firmly on the tiles of the Girls’ Loo. “I suppose this explains a lot. I was starting to think that Potter was a pervert.”  
  
I nodded. “Yes. The current location of the Chamber is an unfortunate consequence of the constantly-shifting nature of Hogwarts.”  
  
Draco seemed troubled. “This doesn’t make sense, though. How can one of the trials _require_ a Parselmouth? The other ones at least pretended to be fair.”  
  
I snorted. “You don’t need to be a Parselmouth to open it. There are only like four syllables in Parseltongue, random hissing would probably crack it eventually.”  
  
He was shocked silent at my brilliance.  
  
“Besides,” I continued, “It’s not unfair that you needed a Parselmouth because one was there. Perhaps…one will always be there.”  
  
Draco took a step into the Chamber. “Thank you, my lord.”  
  
“I’ve told you: Call me Professor,” I said. “Also, good luck with the Basilisk!”

* * *

“Hermione, please give me my wand back,” I begged.  
  
Hermione held my wand above her head, using her height advantage against me. “Not until I’m sure that you won’t cast an Unforgivable on yourself.”  
  
I took a step upon the worn, wooden floor and placed a hand on her shoulder. “What? No. Why would I cast an Unforgivable on myself? That would be ridiculous. Give me the wand.”  
  
She groaned, my wand clenched firmly in her hands. “ _No._ ”  
  
“I can feel my magical core draining.”  
  
“There hasn’t been a theory of magic that even _postulated_ magical cores since the seventeenth century” – Hermione furrowed her brow – “I’m honestly not sure where you would have heard about them.”  
  
“Hermione, I am begging you –“  
  
She glared at me. “Will you _stop_?”  
  
“I’ll never stop. You’ll have to imperio me.”  
  
“I will not,” she ground out.  
  
“I’ll set Nagini on you,” I said. _“Nagini, hiss at Hermione.”_  
  
Nagini hissed, and Hermione swallowed heavily. “You wouldn’t.”  
  
“…You’re right,” I mumbled.  
  
Hermione blinked. “Really?”  
  
I whirled around to my other minion. “Ron, give me Dumbledore’s wand.”  
  
Ron’s freckles stood darkly against his white face. “Uh, can’t. Sorry.”  
  
“You aren’t even using it!”  
  
“It’s not a very good match for me,” he mumbled. “But I still can’t give it to you.”  
  
“Don’t let Hermione bully you into denying me this,” I said.  
  
“Honestly! Will you stop trying to manipulate Ron” – Hermione raised a hand to keep me silent – “and, no, I am not going to stop you with the Imperius just because you have some sort of addiction.”  
  
I glared at my traitorous followers. “I am not addicted. It’s just that everything is terrible, now. The colors are too bright and the light is sharper and I feel guilty about everything…Oh Merlin, is this how you feel all the time?”  
  
“Uh, no?” Ron denied his suffering, but I could see the truth in his eyes. Wait, had they always been blue?  
  
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, wild hair drifting over her eyes. “I’m sorry, Harry, but you’ll just have to ride out this…whatever this is.”  
  
She was wrong, I suddenly realized. I raced towards the cupboard and dug through my robes. With a triumphant cry, I unearthed a wand and held it aloft.  
  
Hermione frowned, and, with a twirl of her wand, said “Expelliarmus.”  
  
I whimpered. Hermione examined the wand with a gentle frown. “Where did you even get this?”  
  
“I stole it from Neville. The reason doesn’t even make sense now” – I paused for a moment – “Do you think I should give it back?”  
  
Ron frowned. “Uh, maybe when you’re acting less crazy…or, at least, more _your_ kind of crazy.”  
  
I shook my head, summoning my wand from Hermione’s grasp with a flick of my wrist. “No, we have to go to Hogwarts. It’s the only way to defeat the Dark Lord. He’s killing people right now.”  
  
Hermione said, “Harry –“  
  
“Right now. I can hear the screaming. It’s kind of creeping me out. Besides, I _really_ need to return Neville’s wand.”  
  
Hermione sighed. “Alright.”  
  
Ron scrambled towards the trunk’s desk in search of parchment. “I’ll owl Ginny.”

* * *

We followed Pansy Parkinson and…Crabbe through the secret passageway, Ron sulking and eying the Slytherins with suspicion. “Probly leading us into a trap, bloody Death Eaters in training.”  
  
Hermione said, “Ronald, stop antagonizing our allies.”  
  
“I don’t think they’re really our allies,” he said. “Why would Ginny send a bunch of Slytherins to get us?”  
  
Parkinson flipped her dark hair dismissively. “Perhaps because we’re the only ones who can travel unwatched in Hogsmeade?”  
  
Ron kicked a rodent’s skull, sending it skittering into the darkness. “I’m just saying we should’ve gotten a passcode or something.”  
  
“Then you would be claiming that they’d intercepted our mail,” Hermione said.  
  
I trailed behind them, comfortably invisible as I pulled along our trunk. “It’s possible they still did. That’s why they were able to so seamlessly intercept our meeting, leading us ever-closer to our doom.”  
  
Hermione, showing a shocking lack of caution, snapped, “Harry, will you stop encouraging him?”  
  
Ron scowled. “I just don’t get why a bunch of Slytherins would help us.”  
  
Parkinson disdainfully glanced at the slime dripping from the walls and the Weasley walking behind her. “I’m beginning to wonder that, as well.”  
  
“See?”  
  
Crabbe grunted, “The Dark Lord killed my father.”  
  
Was that my fault? That might have been one of my killing curses. I shrugged off the question. “That monster.”  
  
The hulking boy sniffled. “Everything’s worse with him here…’Cept the Creature Rights’ laws. Those are very progressive.”  
  
“They’re a travesty, if you ask me,” Parkinson said.  
  
“Nobody did,” Ron snapped. “Why are _you_ helping, anyway?”  
  
“I owe Ginny a favor. Besides, Harry _is_ an honorary Slytherin.”  
  
Ron paled. “He’s a what, now?”  
  
Parkinson smirked, a slight sway in her step. “Oh, yes. He did win us the House Cup, in Third Year.”  
  
“But that doesn’t make him –“  
  
“Snape thinks it does,” she purred. “Of course, he thinks that _everyone_ who beats him at something is supposed to be in Slytherin. That man takes house loyalty way too far.”  
  
“I feel obligated to point out that, though I have the best traits of all four houses, I am more brave and noble than all of them combined,” I announced.  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. Ron said, “That can’t be it, though. There’s gotta be some other reason –“  
  
A slim figure stepped out of the darkness, red hair dazzling under our lumos. “They’ve been a lot more helpful since I explained that I’m the Heiress of Slytherin.”  
  
Ron’s jaw dropped. “Ginny?!”  
  
“Hi guys!” Ginevra chirped.  
  
Hermione smiled. “How are you doing?”  
  
“Great! We’ve taken back most of the classrooms, three of the common rooms, and possibly the North Tower, depending on whether or not Trelawney’s still a Death Eater.”  
  
“I guess you still haven’t got the snake’s den,” Ron said.  
  
“Nope. That was easy,” Ginevra said. “The problem is that we lost Hufflepuff.”  
  
“Castle moved after the Death Eaters showed up,” Crabbe grunted.  
  
“I had to share a bedroom with six Puffs.” Parkinson shivered with perfectly justifiable disgust.  
  
Ginevra said, “We’re staging expeditions into the dungeons to find it, but no luck so far.”  
  
The Slytherins departed as we entered an enormous room. Piles of rubble leaned against its filthy walls, and beds were scattered about the rock floor, some holding bandaged and unconscious students. The Chamber of Secrets had certainly changed since the last time I’d visited.  
  
We passed several cauldrons as we walked. I peered into one. “Felix Felicis?”  
  
Neville approached us, grinning. “I figured we needed all the luck we could get.”  
  
“Hey, Nev!” one of the injured students yelled. “Get away from the potions before they have another go at ‘cha.”  
  
“Neville makes the potions explode just by looking at them,” Ginevra explained.  
  
Neville laughed, and the Sword of Gryffindor banged against his side with each guffaw. “Came in handy in the Potions classroom that one time.”  
  
An arm crawled over Neville’s shoulder and down his chest, and Lavender’s face appeared in the crook of his neck. “You shouldn’t stay here too long, Nevi, sweetie.”  
  
Hermione stepped forward to protect Ron from the potential explosion. Not surprising, her shield has always been superior. She regarded Lavender coolly. “You’re dating Neville now.”  
  
“I think he is just sooo brave for taking on all those Death Eaters,” she cooed. “Also, he’s got the Sword of Gryffindor, so he’s the bravest guy in the whole wide world!”  
  
“I could have the Sword of Gryffindor,” Ron muttered.  
  
Hermione elbowed him, and he smiled nervously. I shoved Neville’s old wand at his chest. “This is yours. I found it in my trunk and was compelled by my inherent nobility to return it.”  
  
Neville stared down at it, smiling softly. “Wow. Thanks. I don’t really use magic much, and my new wand’s a better match, anyway. But this was my Dad’s. Good to have it back.”  
  
I nodded. “Yes.”  
  
Ginevra spun in place, short hair twirling around her head like a dress. “Welcome to the Chamber of Secrets!”  
  
Hermione glanced around. “So you’re really the Heiress? I’d just assumed you had caught Harry’s sense of humor.”  
  
“Of course I am,” Ginevra said. “I command the Basilisk.”  
  
She hissed, _“Come.”_ Or possibly “ _Strangle_.” Her accent was terrible. The Basilisk slithered towards us, students scrambling out of its way. It came to rest beside Ginevra, eyes closed and waiting for instructions.  
  
 _“Go sleep twice,”_ Ginevra said. _“Only need look terrifying.”_  
  
I would like to reiterate the horror that was Ginevra Weasley attempting to speak Parseltongue. The Basilisk silently accepted this butchery of the language, returning to an empty corner where it curled into a ball.  
  
Ron had the look of a man whose entire world had been destroyed, and even Hermione appeared a bit faint. I responded in the only way I knew how, “Hah! I told you I wasn’t the Heir.”

* * *

What a fool I had been. I’d let my guard down in enemy territory, and, now, here I was: Cornered.  
  
I eased my hand towards my pocket, hoping I could reach my wand before she did any irreparable damage. But, no, my plan had been foreseen and my arm grabbed.  
  
“Harry, I just wanted to thank you for giving me a second chance,” Ginevra said. “You know, back in my First Year.”  
  
I frowned, unsure of how she’d come to this conclusion. Ginevra Weasley was being possessed by my younger self while opening the Chamber of Secrets. At least, I think she was. “You remember being the Heir?”  
  
Her lips flitted upwards, and she murmured, “Bits and pieces. The bathroom. The Chamber. Speaking Parseltongue. You.”  
  
She squeezed my arm a little tighter, and her voice softened to a whisper. “I’ve reformed. I really have, but sometimes I _still_ think about killing Muggleborns.”  
  
“That’s perfectly natural,” I assured her.  
  
Ginevra giggled. “That’s what Pansy says, too. Anyways, I just wanted to thank you for not sending me to Azkaban and…”  
  
Using her height advantage against me, Ginevra leaned forward. Her breath fanned my lips. “…tell you that…“  
  
I jerked away. “You’re very welcome. However, I need to go kill Voldemort. Goodbye!”  
  
Grabbing Hermione, I fled towards the Girls’ Loo.

* * *

“We should have gotten Ron,” Hermione muttered as we hurried through the hallways.  
  
I shook my head. “There wasn’t time.”  
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”  
  
I mentally shoved away images of Ginevra, though they would no doubt haunt my nightmares for years to come. “We need to get the Diadem of Ravenclaw.”  
  
“So we couldn’t wait thirty seconds to call over Ron?”  
  
“Exactly. This is a quick, easy mission, and getting Ron would take more time than bringing him would save. Besides, someone has to watch the trunk, and, frankly, it’s hard enough fitting _you_ under the cloak.” I pulled at the starry fabric surrounding us. If Hermione didn’t hunch forward, the passing Death Eaters could see our shoes.  
  
We reached the third floor, and I began pacing. Hermione asked, “The Diadem is in the Room of Requirement?”  
  
I turned on my heel, heading back up the hallway. “Technically, everything that’s in Hogwarts is in the Room, if you wish for it hard enough.”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you lock that?”  
  
“I did,” I said. “But I can get in.”  
  
I finished pacing, and an impressive, oak door shimmered into existence. A silvery lock sat in its center. I sauntered up to it. “All I need is faith in myself, which I have in abundance, and to have learned lessons from the trials. Thankfully, I set up the trials, so I already know everything.”  
  
“Of course you do,” Hermione muttered from close behind me.  
  
I turned the knob and —  
  
Click.  
  
I turned the knob again. And again. It didn’t open.  
  
“Alright, new plan,” I said. “We need to convert Malfoy.”  
  
“WE WHAT?!”  
  
“He’s already done half the trials. With our help, he could be through the door in hours…I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to charm him with your feminine wiles?”  
  
She groaned. “Harry, that’s… _no_.”  
  
I leaned against the wall, the stone’s chill dulled by my cloak. “Right, right. The break-up’s still too fresh. That’s fine. Draco is rebellious enough without your influence.”  
  
“When has Malfoy _ever_ rebelled?” Hermione said. “He practically worships his father.”  
  
“And yet his hair tells another story,” I said.  
  
Hermione blinked, her mind slowly churning over my amazing deduction. “His…I’m sorry?”  
  
“Lucius Malfoy is very proud of his long, luxurious hair. He even cloned himself just to ensure its continued existence, yet what has Draco done? Cut it and hardened it with harsh gels. If Draco was truly so devoted to his father, why would he spit upon his very reason for existence?”  
  
Hermione buried her face in her hands. “I think I liked this plan better before you explained it.”  
  
I grinned and took off towards the Dungeons. “Let’s go find Malfoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s common in fanon for snakes to obey Parselmouths for very flimsy reasons. At first, this seemed silly. Then, I realized something:
> 
> If, while walking down the street one day, a cat turned to me and said, “Hand me your umbrella,” I would give the cat the bloody umbrella. You don’t just ignore the talking animal. That’s the very foundation of most magical girl series…
> 
> Also, I sometimes think that my Tom Riddle is merely a series of bad decisions executed well.


	19. Chapter 9: Harry Potter vs. Himself (Pt. 3)

Draco Malfoy wandered outside of the DADA classroom, a thoughtful and solitary figure. As he passed a dusty side-corridor, no doubt created during the castle’s recent shuffling, I muttered, “Accio Malfoy.”  
  
Malfoy’s gasp mingled with a more distant yelp as he stumbled towards us. With a nervous glance around the seemingly empty corridor, Malfoy said, “P-Potter?”  
  
I whipped off the cloak, revealing Hermione and myself. Striding towards him, I said, “What gave me away? The strength of my spell-casting? The brilliance of my plan? The subtle scent of –“  
  
“You were invisible,” he said.  
  
I paused, not at all appreciating Hermione’s giggles. “Right, yes, I suppose that makes sense.”  
  
Malfoy glanced back towards the entranceway, which shimmered with invisibility and silencing spells. “What are you doing here, Potter? You shouldn’t have…wait, have you been here all year, skulking around under your cloak?”  
  
I leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed. “Perhaps.”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “No.”  
  
“I could have been,” I said.  
  
“That doesn’t change the fact that you weren’t,” Hermione said, maliciously diminishing my reputation.  
  
Malfoy drummed his fingers against his wand, body half-turned towards the exit. “You still haven’t explained what you’re doing here.”  
  
“I have a proposition for you” – I twirled my wand between my fingers – “How would you like to join Hermione’s Dark Army?”  
  
“Harry, you are _not –_ “  
  
I raised a hand to silence her. “Quiet, Hermione. If you aren’t going to be proactive, then I’ll have to do this for you.”  
  
“Granger has an army,” Malfoy said, still too blinded by Hermione’s innocent image and his own lingering feelings to imagine it.  
  
I nodded. “We’re still in the early recruiting stages, which offers you a chance to get in on the ground floor. With Hermione’s brilliant, vicious mind and your financial resources, as well as the lessons you’ve learned from my trials, you could completely replace the government within a decade. I understand that you may be reluctant to follow someone with lesser blood than you. I can assure you, however, that that would _not_ be the case in this instance.”  
  
“You will not –“ Hermione cut off as my Silencing Spell hit her.  
  
She glared daggers at me, but I spoke firmly. “He has a right to know.”  
  
I turned back to the curious blond with a smile. “Rowena Ravenclaw had a second daughter, a squib. She never talked about her, of course, because she was a squib.”  
  
Malfoy sneered. “Understandable.”  
  
“That daughter had children of her own. Eventually, her descendants moved to Australia where their magical blood rekindled to form the Granger family. Generally, the Grangers have been an odd and reclusive clan, keeping well away from even the Australian magical society. Upon discovering their relation to a Hogwarts founder, however, they chose to send their latest child to study abroad.”  
  
Hermione had finally worked off the Silencing Charm. “I am not the Heiress of Ravenclaw.”  
  
“Really? If it isn’t true, then why are you denying it?” I demanded.  
  
Taken aback by my stunning logic, she turned to the much more gullible Malfoy. “You don’t believe this tripe!”  
  
“It would explain a few things,” he admitted. “But, no, you’re actively denying it, and I’ve learned my lesson about listening to Potter.”  
  
“Oh, thank Circe,” Hermione sighed.  
  
“I hope you’ll still join,” I said. “Despite Hermione’s incessant secret-keeping.”  
  
Malfoy frowned, clearly put off by the heiress’s antics. “I suppose.”  
  
“Wonderful!” I exclaimed. “First order of business: Eliminating the competition. Hermione?”  
  
Malfoy let out a strangled squeak as my best minion explained, “We’ve been collecting several objects necessary to kill You-Know-Who. All we need is the Diadem of Ravenclaw –“  
  
“Hermione’s family heirloom,” I interjected.  
  
“Unfortunately, it’s still in the Room of Requirement, which is locked.”  
  
“Luckily, you” – I tapped him on the chest with my wand – “Have part of the key. I figure we can get the rest by dinner.”  
  
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Dinner? It took me over a year to get the last five pieces.”  
  
“I designed it to be completed in about three months,” I said. “Trust me, we’ll be in by dinner.”  
  
Malfoy’s eye twitched.  
  
I smirked. “Hermione, you can grab Ron and the trunk while we tackle the next trial. Meet us at the Room of Requirement.”  
  
“Alright.” Hermione cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself.  
  
“Draco, I need you to throw a snake at me.”  
  
Malfoy paused for a moment. “Mind repeating that, Potter?”  
  
“Throw a snake at me!” I cried. “Quickly. There’s no time to explain.”  
  
Draco threw a snake at me. I recognized the pattern of black and green scales immediately. “ _Ophion!_ ”  
  
The snake peered upwards, scenting the air. _“You are a speaker?”_  
  
 _“You don’t remember me?”_ I asked.  
  
The snake hissed a no. With a heavy sigh, I vanished it.  
  
“Harry!” Hermione snapped. “Why did you do that?”  
  
“He wasn’t the same, so I killed him,” I explained.  
  
Malfoy paled and demonstrated an appropriate level of fear and awe by taking a step away from me. Hermione groaned. “Harry, are you under the Imperius again?”

* * *

“…and he kept planning partner activities even though I was the only one who attended class!” Draco ranted.  
  
I thoughtfully caressed my wand. “So you would consider the Dark Lord a fairly bad professor, then?”  
  
“ _Yes,”_ Draco said. “I mean, he’s probably the best DADA teacher I’ve ever had, but he’s still horrible.”  
  
While talking, we had entered the third floor corridor which sometimes held the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Ron and Hermione were waiting for us by the locked door, and Hermione hurried over. “Oh, good, I was worried you would…Is Malfoy wearing leather pants?”  
  
I glanced at the tight, black pants Draco was currently sporting. “Technically, it’s dragon hide. It protects you from fire.”  
  
“Yes, but _why_?” she pressed, yet again demonstrating her intense curiosity about the world at a wildly inappropriate time.  
  
“Dragons breathe fire. It’s a part of their metaphysical nature –“  
  
“Not that,” Hermione snapped. “Why is he wearing them?”  
  
I glanced towards the door to confirm that Ron and Hermione had not suddenly swapped places. “To protect him from fire, of course.”  
  
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Then why isn’t he wearing a shirt?”  
  
“It caught on fire. For Merlin’s sake, Hermione, keep up!”  
  
Ron, noticing Draco’s shirtless state, came over to glare at him. “I still don’t trust you. Why are you even helping us, anyway?”  
  
“I don’t believe in the Dark Lord’s tenets anymore…excepting the Creatures Rights laws,” Draco said. “The fourth trial taught me a lot about acceptance, and I can’t seem to unlearn it.”  
  
Ron snorted. “So you’re suddenly our friend?”  
  
Draco crossed his arms over his bare chest and sneered. “Don’t worry Weasel, I still think you’re a pathetic, idiotic Gryffindork.”  
  
“You didn’t mention that he’s poor,” I pointed out.  
  
“The second trial taught me what it’s like to have nothing” – Draco smirked – “I imagine that how Weasley feels all the time.”  
  
“I DO NOT!” Ron roared, jabbing his wand against Draco’s chest.  
  
Hermione batted it down with her own wand, glaring at them. “Enough! Let’s stop bickering and go into the room.”  
  
Draco paused. “…We can’t.”  
  
“Why not?” Hermione said coldly, Ron looming above her.  
  
Draco pulled six silver objects from his dragon hide pants. They glowed slightly where they touched each other. “The key still isn’t complete.”  
  
“Right, yes, I almost forgot about that” – I rifled through my pockets – “Here you go, Draco.”  
  
Draco stared at the item in my hand. “You had the final piece.”  
  
“The whole time.”  
  
He snatched the rest of the key, glowering at the three of us. “Then it wasn’t fair at all!”  
  
“Sure it was. You could have learned a lesson about friendship or espionage or possibly seduction.”  
  
Ron asked, “Is that why he’s not wearing a shirt?”  
  
“But you weren’t even in the castle this year,” Draco said.  
  
“Yet, when you needed the final piece, I was. Perhaps, I always would have been.”  
  
Draco growled at me and, with a burst of light, the pieces united into an ornate, silver key. He stomped towards the door and stuck it into the lock.  
  
The key broke, its pieces disappearing, and the door remained closed.  
  
The blond whirled around, glowering. “It broke.”  
  
I hurried forward. “Draco, don’t you deserve to get in?”  
  
Draco sneered. “Of course I do. I did all your stupid trials.”  
  
“And learned so many lessons,” I mused. “If you truly deserve to go in, then why would you need a key?”  
  
“You’re kidding me,” he said flatly.  
  
I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Draco, open the door.”  
  
Young Malfoy turned the knob and the door smoothly opened.  
  
“You see?” I said. “The true key was within you all along. All you had to do was believe in yourself!”  
  
Draco gazed into the Room of Requirement, which was empty save for the pedestal holding Ravenclaw’s Diadem. “I spent a year and a half tracking down the key pieces, all for a key that I didn’t need.”  
  
I chuckled, pushing past him. “Just because the key doesn’t open the door doesn’t mean you don’t need the key.”  
  
My three minions followed me inside.  
  
“Ravenclaw’s Diadem,” Hermione breathed. She collapsed against the doorway to gaze upon her ancestor’s artifact.  
  
I grinned, opening my trunk to store the Diadem with my other Horcruxes.  
  
“You aren’t putting it on?” Ron asked.  
  
I blinked. “What?”  
  
“Y’know, the Diadem. The whole point of it is to put it on, right? It makes you smarter and stuff.”  
  
Hermione clucked her tongue. “It’s a strange magical artifact that may very well be cursed. Of course he isn’t just tossing it on his –“  
  
“Merlin, I’m so stupid. So many missed opportunities, so many overlooked alliances, so many times I shouldn’t have gotten drunk…”  
  
“You put it on” – Hermione sighed – “Of course you did.”  
  
She thought I’d been acting foolishly, but she was wrong. Her point regarding the possibility of my Diadem being cursed was a fair one, particularly considering the fact that it _was_ cursed. However, this was the wisest thing I’d ever done.  
  
I should have worn it years ago, rather than making the Horcrux. Or I even could have done both. Sure, people would try to steal it, but I would guard it heavily regardless of whether it contained my soul.  
  
“Harry?” Ron asked weakly. He sounded cautious but concerned. Of course he did, he was fond of me. And I’ve proven myself to be somewhat childish. Even insane. What a fool I was.  
  
“Harry, are you alright?” Hermione asked.  
  
No, no I wasn’t. I was an idiot. Why did I even want to be the Defense teacher, anyway? Or to be immortal? What was the point?  
  
I grabbed the Diadem, flinging it towards Hermione. “Hermione, destroy it.”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s a relic, Harry. I won’t damage a vital piece of history simply because you don’t like the truth. Besides, we need it for the ritual.”  
  
She put it on.  
  
My eyes widened. “No! You fool. Take it off right now and perhaps you’ll escape –“  
  
“Merlin. I’m so stupid…”  
  
Ron plucked it off her head. Hermione swayed, mumbling, “Oh, that really was awful.”  
  
Ron tucked it under his arm. Draco sneered. “Aren’t you putting it on? You might finally learn what it’s like to have normal intelligence.”  
  
Ron rolled his eyes and remarked, “Nah, I already know I’ve been dumb. Why? You want it?”  
  
Draco paled. “You can keep it.”  
  
Ron shrugged, tossing it back to me. I slung it over my shoulder, which I imagine gained incredible insight into the world but was unable to share it due to being a shoulder.  
  
Hermione, meanwhile, had approached Ron. She smiled. “When I was wearing the Diadem, I realized that we could be dead in a couple of hours and I never would have told you that I liked you. Which is just so absolutely _stupid_ because you obviously like me too. So I was wondering if, perhaps, presuming the Diadem isn’t cursed to give misleading information –“  
  
Ron leaned down to kiss her, and she enthusiastically reciprocated. I watched, dumbfounded.  
  
Ron and Hermione. Wow. I did _not_ see that coming.  
  
Draco turned away, unable to watch his first love with another man. I said, “I’m so sorry, Draco.”  
  
He raised an eyebrow and drawled, “Potter, I’m disgusted.”  
  
“Sure you are,” I said, “but, if you ever need to talk about this, I can lend you Ginevra…Come to think of it, you can keep her.”  
  
Draco sneered at me, a sure sign that he was feeling better. “I don’t want your girlfriend, Potter.”  
  
He’d even discovered his sense of humor!  
  
I said, “We should get back to the rebel base to regroup. Along the way, Hermione can devise one of her evil schemes.”  
  
Hermione tore herself from the snog for an indignant: “I don’t devise evil schemes!”  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. One of your regular schemes, then.”  
  
Hermione would find a way to make it evil.

* * *

Draco stood atop the staircase. Lost in thought, he steadied himself on the slimy wall. “Even after my trial down here, I’m still shocked that _you_ ended up being the Heir.”  
  
“Why does everyone think that? It was Ginevra.”  
  
Draco snapped out of his reverie and snatched his hand from the muck-lined wall with a wet pop. After a panicked cleaning charm, he said, “A _Weasley_ the Heir of Slytherin?”  
  
Ron said, “Well, why not?”  
  
“You’re Gryffindors,” he spat.  
  
I chuckled. “Just because someone is a Gryffindor doesn’t mean they aren’t a Slytherin. Right, Hermione?”  
  
Hermione pushed past us and into the darkness, muttering about morons (probably Ron’s fault). We hurriedly followed.  
  
I said, “To be fair, Ginevra is a seventh child.”  
  
Draco said, “You can’t expect me to believe that the Weasleys managed to squeeze a Parselmouth from their impure blood, no matter how many children they pop out.”  
  
Ron’s face flushed bright red, but his angry exclamation was cut short by a calm voice below us. “I’m quite certain Ginny’s a Parselmouth. She taught me how to say my name in it and everything.”  
  
There is no word in that language which comes anywhere near Luna’s name. I shudder to think what horribly mispronounced nickname Ginevra had bestowed upon the poor girl.  
  
The blonde was cheerfully waiting at the bottom of the steps with Hermione, who said, “Luna’s guarding the door.”  
  
“You aren’t Death Eaters polyjuiced to look like you four, are you?” the blonde politely inquired.  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow. “If that were the case, why would _I_ be here?”  
  
“I’m not sure why you’re here, anyway,” Ron muttered.  
  
I said, “To be fair, the Death Eaters might have run out of polyjuice.”  
  
“That would be pathetic,” Draco said.  
  
“It sounds fairly typical for them, really,” I mused.  
  
Ron chose to use his brain, and, as always, the result was a terrible disappointment. “Could you even beat that many Death Eaters, Luna?”  
  
Hermione pursed her lips. “It’s more about sounding the alarm, Ronald.”  
  
“If she couldn’t, why would they bother using polyjuice?” I added.  
  
“I’ll be fine. Neville even loaned me the Sword of Gryffindor.” Luna hefted the sword and waved it at us.  
  
Hermione’s eye twitched. Violently. “ _You_ are a true Gryffindor.”  
  
“Not really,” she said. “It’s more about how you hold it.”  
  
“I —"  
  
“Is that my House Elf?” Draco demanded, glaring into the Chamber where Dobby was scurrying about with a tray of sandwiches.  
  
“Oh, yes,” Luna said. “Apparently, he’s been stealing from you for several years. I think he’s a true Slytherin.”  
  
Draco’s agitated gaze swept over the room, eyes widening when he reached a small crowd towards the center. “Snape?!”  
  
“He’s more of a Ravenclaw,” Luna said.  
  
Draco rushed over to the crowd. I sedately followed. With a casual Incarcerous to tie up Draco, Ginevra said, “Hi, Harry! I didn’t know you were going to kidnap Malfoy.”  
  
“Hermione recruited him, actually,” I said.  
  
“Huh” – Ginevra glanced down at the struggling, rope-bound boy at her feet – “I guess she’s wanted him for a while, so good for her.”  
  
I gestured towards the man bound to a wooden chair. “I see you’ve kidnapped Snape.”  
  
“Astute as ever, Potter,” Severus said.  
  
“We took him right from his office,” Neville said, lifting up the Sorting Hat as an odd trophy. It remained inactive, still and deflated in his grasp.  
  
Ginevra beamed. “We’ve got the Headmaster, so we’re pretty sure we own the school, now.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous. We’re in the exact same situation we were this morning,” Hermione said.  
  
“Yeah, but now Snape can awaken the castle and drive out the invaders,” Ginevra continued.  
  
Hermione eyes fluttered at this new and overwhelming information. “Awaken…I’m sorry?”  
  
I explained, “The castle is a living being, capable of controlling all within its walls.”  
  
“Only the Headmaster can call it to action, though,” Ginevra said.  
  
“Cute. Do you two practice this?” Draco spat from his position on the floor.  
  
“Of course not. We’re simply right,” I said.  
  
Severus watched our conversation with a sense of overwhelming boredom. “No. You are not.”  
  
I jabbed him in the chest with my wand. “Really? If the castle isn’t sentient, then why does it hate us so much?”  
  
Severus merely sighed. “Regardless, I have no such power.”  
  
“He could be lying,” Neville said. “He probably isn’t, but he could be.”  
  
I frowned. “No way to know for sure. He fooled Dumbledore for years. Our best bet is to kill him before he sows dissension in our ranks.”  
  
“Harry, we are not killing the Headmaster,” Hermione said, again showcasing her hypocrisy.  
  
“If we kill him, I’m pretty sure _we_ become the Headmaster.”  
  
“They got rid of that rule in the thirteenth century,” she said sharply, struggling to hide her disappointment.  
  
“Still –“  
  
“I suspect this is a good time to mention that I am a spy,” Severus said.  
  
Neville regarded him coldly. He set the Sorting Hat on the bed and took his sword back from Luna. “We’re aware.”  
  
“For Dumbledore,” Severus clarified.  
  
I snorted. “You don’t actually expect us to believe that?”  
  
Ginevra chirped, “You hate Harry, even though he’s the Chosen One and great at Potions and a genius and so, so handsome.”  
  
Not wanting to encourage Ginevra’s lunacy, I said, “You’re a terrible teacher.”  
  
“You helped You-Know-Who take over the school,” Hermione said.  
  
“You’re best friends with Sirius Black.” I leaned out of biting range as Snape snarled at that suggestion.  
  
Lavender’s head crept upwards to settle on Neville’s shoulder. “You made me cry every day in Second Year!”  
  
“…Me too,” Neville said.  
  
“So sensitive!” she squealed, throwing her hands around his neck in a crushing hug.  
  
Hermione sent them a disapproving look and Ron hastily averted his eyes. He said, “You haven’t told the Order of the Phoenix anything since Dumbledore died, and I know because my family pretty much _is_ the Order now.”  
  
I casually accioed the Sorting Hat, stuffing it into my trunk. “Finally, you’re a werewolf.”  
  
“Not all werewolves are Death Eaters,” Ron said.  
  
“Of course they are.”  
  
I paused, quite certain that I hadn’t spoken.  
  
Voldemort strode towards us, backed by several of his most loyal followers. More Death Eaters were pouring through the passageway by the moment.  
  
Right. The girl on guard duty had followed us inside and was currently giving Sirius Black, Voldemort’s right-hand man, a friendly wave. Meanwhile, Fenrir Greyback bared his teeth at Ron in some approximation of a smile, Lucius anxiously tousled his hair at the thought of himself and his clone in such a filthy place, and several Death Eaters were gesturing frantically at Neville.  
  
Voldemort beamed, as if ready to get his picture taken. “Your plan was brilliant. After all, he who commands the Headmaster commands the school. Unfortunately for you, Severus has always been my most loyal servant.”  
  
With a flick of the Dark Lord’s hand, the ropes fell and Severus’s wand snapped into its owner’s hand. The man then leapt from the chair and threw a spell at one of his fellow Death Eaters.  
  
Voldemort gaped. “You couldn’t possibly have turned him already!”  
  
“Of course not,” Severus drawled. “They’re idiots. I betrayed you decades ago.”  
  
Another slash of his wand sent a masked figure careening into the crowd. Voldemort raised his own wand, sneering. “I always knew you would betray me, one day. Crucio.”  
  
Hagrid lumbered forward to shield Severus with his enormous, half-Giant body.  
  
“Severus, Hagrid, Bellatrix, Rodolphus and Rabastan…who’s next, Sirius Black?” Voldemort laughed derisively. To be fair, the notion was completely ridiculous.  
  
To our shock, Black leapt into the battle. “I was never one of you! You only thought that because you were idiots. I don’t even have the Dark Mark.”  
  
“That was a sign of my trust!”  
  
Voldemort was overwhelmed and heartbroken. He coped with these feelings, like all others, through murder. It was about that time that the werewolves rebelled and the battle began in earnest.  
  
Before I could show off my own impressive skills, Hermione pulled me under the invisibility cloak with Ron and the trunk. I frowned. “What was that about?”  
  
“We can’t just fight Voldemort on his own footing,” she hissed.  
  
I said, “I could take him.”  
  
“We need a plan,” she insisted.  
  
“Bloody hell,” Ron said, staring out at the battlefield. “Did Neville just take out that guy’s heart?”  
  
I smirked. “It’s nice to see he’s found a use for his wand.”  
  
He shook his head, freckles dark against his ghostly face. “I didn’t even know they were that sharp.”  
  
I leaned in to whisper, “They aren’t.”  
  
Hermione peered into my trunk. “We need to isolate him from his followers…”  
  
“Oh, not again,” Ginevra wailed as Fawkes descended from the ceiling to attack the Basilisk.  
  
Hermione’s lips pursed. “…and we still have to worry about keeping him immobile for the duration of the ritual.”  
  
“At least Luna’s enjoying herself,” I said as the blonde frolicked past the Malfoys, who were cowering in the corner - as they often do.  
  
Ron nodded, wincing at the fate of the girl’s newest victim.  
  
“Honestly! Will you two pay attention? People are dying,” Hermione snapped.  
  
“Like Snape,” I agreed.  
  
“What? A-are you sure?” Hermione said. Oh, of course. Talking is a huge problem unless _she’s_ the one who wants to do it. Then it’s fine.  
  
Severus threw his hands into the air as he lurched to the stone floor. “YOU HAVE MURDERED ME!”  
  
“Yeah, pretty sure,” I said.  
  
“A CURSE UPON YOU ALL!”  
  
Ron laughed. “That’s Snape alright.”  
  
“ESPECIALLY _YOU_ , BLACK!”  
  
“A death curse. That’s some pretty nasty blood magic. I wouldn’t want to be them,” I said.  
  
Hermione let out a shaky breath. “Harry, you have some of Voldemort’s memories. Surely you know _something_.”  
  
“Wait, what? Why do you think that?” I said.  
  
“I figured it out in Fourth Year, and, frankly, I’m embarrassed it took me that long,” Hermione said, “It’s frightfully obvious.”  
  
Ron seemed completely lost, so Hermione said, “Harry remembers some of the things from Voldemort’s life due to their weird connection. That’s why he knows so much magic and has so many biases.”  
  
“Right, yes,” I said weakly. “That’s exactly what happened. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think I was a dirty Slytherin.”  
  
“I would never think that, Harry,” Ron said.  
  
“Not the time,” Hermione said. “Does Voldemort have any weaknesses?”  
  
My answer was immediate. “No. He’s perfect.”  
  
Hermione flinched at this disheartening news. “Can we trick him?”  
  
I thought about it for a time, over the sounds of battle and Fawkes’ ineffectual yet enthusiastic pecks at the Basilisk’s scales. “Yes. I think we can.”  
  
“Oh, thank Merlin,” Hermione sighed.  
  
I turned to my best mate. “Ron, I’m going to need you to be the most Gryffindor you have been in your entire life.”  
  
A wry smile twisted Ron’s lips. “I’m going to be bait again, aren’t I?”  
  
I shook my head. “No…more of a distraction.”

* * *

The battlefield was red. Not with blood, but with the blinding light of a stunner.  
  
The combatants froze, eyes wide as the light faded to reveal Ronald Weasley. He grinned and said, “Oy, Voldemort! Why don’t you fight the real Chosen One?”  
  
The Dark Lord was the first to break into action, unsurprising considering the quality of his present company. “That’s ridiculous. No Weasleys were born during the end of July.”  
  
Ron said. “July’s the seventh month of the Gregorian calendar. All _real_ prophecies use the Roman one. I was born at the end of _its_ seventh month. You’d know that, if you ever took Divination.”  
  
Voldemort frowned. “What about Harry Potter?”  
  
“He doesn’t fit the prophecy,” Ron said. “The Chosen One has to be a sixth son. It says so in the part you didn’t hear.”  
  
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, and his followers scuttled out of his way as he approached Ron. “I always suspected you Weasleys were up to something. Your family knew about this all along, didn’t you? That’s why they had _so many children_.”  
  
“Uh, yeah, ‘course we did,” Ron agreed.  
  
“You’ve been preparing for this day, biding your time while using Potter as bait. How vicious of you…I don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining the Death Eaters?”  
  
“Nah. If being a Death Eater was any good, then all the other ones wouldn’t have gone traitor,” Ron said.  
  
Voldemort scowled. “In that case, I’m going to kill you.”  
  
“Alright,” Ron said. “We should probly set up some sorta shield or something. That way, nobody can get involved in _our_ battle.”  
  
A swish of Voldemort’s wand sent a shield shimmering darkly around them. This cut the two men off from the rest of the battlefield, who still watched in anxious silence. Only a handful of corpses shared their arena. Voldemort raised his wand.  
  
Ron’s face scrunched up in a Weasley fashion. “Aren’t we supposed to bow first? Y’know, to help with our, uh…legends?”  
  
Voldemort glanced at the crowd and said, “Yes, I suppose this would be a fitting addition to the legend of the Dark Lord Voldemort, politician, Weasley-slayer, and future, undisputed leader of the British Isles.”  
  
Ron grinned and began to bow.  
  
Voldemort followed suit, maintaining eye contact the whole time and grasping his wand loosely in his hand. Until, of course, I accioed it.  
  
He whirled around, not noticing the red beam until it slammed into his back. Eyes wide open, Lord Voldemort fell to the floor.  
  
With a flick of my old, yew wand, I flung the invisibility cloak off to reveal the trunk, Hermione, and myself.  
  
The frizzy-haired girl immediately rushed over to Ron, hugging him. I nudged Voldemort with my foot. “Ron, I need you over here immediately. This is the moment you’ve been training for your whole life.”  
  
My best mate came over, grinning. “Yeah?”  
  
I pointed emphatically with my wands. “If he moves, I need you to stun him, and, if he doesn’t move, then he’s probably trying to trick you and you should stun him anyway.”  
  
Ron nodded gravely, casting a stunner to demonstrate his understanding. With that taken care of, I turned to the crowd. “Lord Voldemort has been defeated by me, Harry Potter.”  
  
The Death Eaters’ uneasy murmurs mingled with the Light siders’ cheers. “Anyone who keeps fighting on his behalf shall be crushed –“  
  
Several Death Eaters fled towards the exit. I twirled my wands and waited for them to leave. “Good! I presume that you remaining few are his most loyal followers, so we don’t need to feel bad about unleashing the _really_ horrible spells…and there goes the rest of them.”  
  
Sirius Black let out a whoop of joy, tossing a curse at their backs. I shivered. Truly, he knew no loyalty. Hermione raised a hand for silence. “We have everything under control, so you can all get rest or medical treatment –“  
  
“Or drunk,” I added. Delighted yells and laughter rung out across the crowd.  
  
Ron threw another stunner at Voldemort. “And somebody should probly call the Aurors.”  
  
“We, meanwhile, will be killing Voldemort with a _secret_ technique left by Albus Dumbledore, the Lightest of Light wizards,” I said.  
  
I tossed my old wand into my left hand and, raising both arms heavenward, released plumes of red smoke. I was only casting with my Holly wand, but it was all very stylish. The smoke pushed against the shield, hiding us from the crowd.  
  
Hermione added a Silencing Charm, and turned to me, “How precisely do we do this ritual, then?”  
  
I snatched the locket from the Dark Lord’s neck and rifled through the trunk, pulling out my Horcruxes and the still inactivated Sorting Hat. Nagini slithered off my arm, first, settling a foot away from Voldemort’s head. Next, I set the other items in a circle around him. A slash of my wand cut Voldemort’s arm, and a stream of blood twirled out.  
  
Ron gaped. “Is that blood magic?”  
  
“Just like my mother used,” I said. “The ritual requires the caster’s blood, but, because of Voldemort’s resurrection ritual, we literally have the same blood. Or metaphorically have the same blood. Either way, I don’t have to bleed.”  
  
Hermione pursed her lips. “That seems highly irresponsible.”  
  
“You’re hardly one to talk, Miss Granger,” a familiar voice drawled.  
  
Our heads snapped to the corner where Severus Snape disapprovingly regarded the smoky ceiling. Hermione said, “Professor?!”  
  
“No one bothered to check if I was dead or merely wounded. How touching.”  
  
“To be fair, you did say you were dead,” I pointed out.  
  
Hermione hurried over, making a fuss over his injuries to distract from her earlier apathy.  
  
Severus’s dark eyes flicked to the thoroughly stunned Voldemort as Ron hit the body with another spell. “It appears that, despite your bumbling idiocy and outrageous arrogance, you have successfully defeated the Dark Lord.”  
  
Hermione said, “Not yet, Professor. We still need a few minutes.”  
  
Severus inclined his head. “Fifty points to Slytherin.”  
  
“I’m rooting for Gryffindor now,” I said.  
  
“I don’t care, Potter.”  
  
“…I’m also not technically a student.”  
  
His eyes were dull and without emotion, as they always are. “I still don’t care.”  
  
“We kill You-Know-Who and our reward is Slytherin winning the Cup,” Ron said. “It’s Snape alright.”  
  
Hermione tossed a stinging hex at Ron, and Severus said, “Twenty points for your cheek.”  
  
I paused, mulling over the redhead’s words. “A reward would be nice…Snape, you’re still the headmaster, right?”  
  
Severus narrowed his eyes at me. “Presumably.”  
  
I beamed. “Can I be the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor?”  
  
Severus said, “Potter, I spent the last year as a spy under a murderous regime, despised by all my true allies, and running a school where the students were in constant warfare with half the staff. Despite all of that, the lack of your presence has made this the most pleasant year I’ve had in some time. I hoped that I could spend the rest of my life pretending you didn’t exist.”  
  
“So, that’s a ‘no,’ then.”  
  
Severus stared at me silently. I stood there, wands heavy in my hands.  
  
“Uh, mate, shouldn’t we be getting rid of Voldemort?” Ron asked, casually stunning him.  
  
“I suppose,” I said morosely. “Once I get over my disappointment.”  
  
Severus scowled. “…Potter, are you holding the Wizarding World hostage to get a job?”  
  
Hermione clucked disapprovingly.  
  
I shook my head. “No, but I may be too upset to do the ritual, right now, and who knows what sort of daring escape Voldemort might pull while we wait.”  
  
Ron punctuated my point with a jet of red light.  
  
“Fine, you’re hired.”  
  
Colorful sparks shot gaily from my wands. “Really?”  
  
Severus consoled himself with a muttered, “You’ll be gone in a year, anyway.”  
  
“Harry, would you please do something about the genocidal maniac on the floor?” Hermione said, her natural selfishness winning out yet again.  
  
I turned back to the ritual with a smile. A flick of my wand painted a bloody heptagon on the floor. Its points lay at myself, Nagini, Ravenclaw’s Diadem, Huffepuff’s Cup, Slytherin’s Locket, the Gaunt ring, and the Sorting Hat.  
  
“This ends the way it began: Avada Kedavra!”  
  
Voldemort’s soul was knocked from his body but contained in the heptagon by the bloody markings.  
  
The ritual was conceptually simple. At each point of the heptagon lay a portion of Voldemort’s soul, barring one: The Sorting Hat. To balance this out, the soul would naturally gravitate towards the empty container, forming a new Horcrux with Voldemort’s death serving as the necessary sacrifice.  
  
The bloody lines vanished as the soul settled into its new home, and the ritual’s magic dispersed into the air, canceling the shield around us. Everyone peered through the smoke, not noticing as I tossed my Horcruxes inside the trunk.  
  
At that moment, Fawkes landed upon my shoulder. He let out a shriek, directly into my ear, and burst into flames.  
  
Later, many would describe this as a beautiful scene, symbolizing the rebirth of Wizarding Britain after Lord Voldemort’s demise.  
  
I don’t know why. Fawkes does this every couple of years, and the second-degree burns he left were hardly inspirational.  
  
Personally, I believe he did it out of spite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe that Luna’s Parseltongue name roughly translates to “Climbing Egg." After all, snakes rarely look up, and, when they do, they do not care.


	20. Epilogue: Thirteen Years Later

The first day of school had arrived yet again.  
  
The students were unusually awake this year, buzzing about the previous night’s Sorting and constructing all sorts of wild tales. After all, it had been thirteen years since anyone had been placed in Slytherin.  
  
As I passed the green-clothed table, I nodded to the solitary figure picking at her toast and received a weak grin in return. This set off a new round of whispering.  
  
Sirius Black gave a large wave and beckoned for me to sit beside him at the staff table. I’m not certain why we kept him on as the Muggle Studies professor after the war. I don’t think he’s ever met a Muggle that he wasn’t murdering.  
  
People said that Black was a spy for Dumbledore, but I’m not so sure about that. It seems like the old man had an awful lot of spies: Sirius, Severus, Hagrid…  
  
I’m pretty sure Lucius Malfoy wasn’t a spy for Dumbledore, but he got off, too.  
  
I avoided Sirius’s gaze, still uneasy about his wild and unpredictable temperament, and he moved on to a closer target: Headmaster Snape.  
  
I, instead, took a seat between Minerva McGonagall and Ginevra, our History of Magic professor.  
  
The Weasley took the post after Binns passed on twelve years ago. It was completely unexpected, and, after so many years of his abysmal teaching, no one was really qualified for the job. Luckily, Ginevra had lesson plans and everything.  
  
Many assume that Binns’s unfinished business had something to do with Voldemort’s demise. That seemed strange to me, since he was teaching for generations before I came along. Maybe he just longed to see one last war.  
  
In all likelihood, he wanted something inane that no one else would have noticed.  
  
Ginevra held up the Prophet, exclaiming, “Hermione won!”  
  
“Of course she did. Hermione would never let anything get in the way of her ruthless ambition.”  
  
Hermione, upon graduation, returned to the Department of Mysteries. After our adventures, however, she began to find the work unfulfilling and returned to her childhood dream of becoming the Dark Lady of Wizarding Britain.  
  
Her husband Ron became a Werewolf Rights activist. Of course, there was a terrible scandal a few years ago, when it turned out that he wasn’t actually a werewolf and had been lying to us all. I, for one, was shocked.  
  
Ginevra leaned over to straighten my tie and remarked, “Looks like Neville got engaged to another princess.”  
  
Ah, yes, my apprentice: A man lauded as the next Gilderoy Lockhart.  
  
I tapped my wand against my chin. “Is he still fighting Dark Lords in Albania?”  
  
Ginevra shrugged. “Hard to say. It’s a Skeeter article, and Neville refuses to comment. Aside from mentioning that you were his teacher, of course.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
At a table below, a young Gryffindor disappeared behind the latest edition of the Quibbler, and I reminisced about Luna, who set off in search of Atlantis some years ago, never to be seen again.  
  
Some say that she found the lost city.  
  
I prefer to believe that she’s dead because that excuses her for never writing.  
  
As for me, well, everyone always knew where I would end up…

* * *

The First Years peered around my classroom, which was decorated with souvenirs from my various victories, my Order of Merlin, a drowsing Nagini, and a phoenix tensed for attack. As minutes slowly passed by, they grew increasingly anxious.  
  
The Finch-Flechley girl, idly tugging at her braided hair, remarked, “We should just leave.”  
  
“We can’t do that,” Adrian Pucey Jr. protested.  
  
She sniffed disdainfully, adjusting her glasses. “If he can’t be bothered to show up, then why should we?”  
  
“He’s probably just running late! If we run off, then we’ll lose a ton of points.”  
  
“Rose isn’t here,” Zabini said. “Do you think she knows something we don’t?”  
  
The newest Malfoy clone yawned, reluctantly lifting his head from the table. “She’s sick.”  
  
“Really? I’ve heard she’s too afraid to show her face after last night,” Finch-Flechley purred.  
  
Malfoy glared. “ _She is sick_.”  
  
“I bet she’s crying her eyes out right now. I certainly would be, if I were her…”  
  
The blond leapt to his feet, wand in hand. “Shut up, Finch.”  
  
She drew her own wand. “Finch? Is that _really_ the best you can do?”  
  
“Sorry, I couldn’t think of anything stupider than your name.”  
  
The few giggling students were silenced by Finch-Flechley’s glare. “Listen here, you simpering, Slytherin-wannabe –“  
  
Her wand began to glow with a spell, so I accioed it, along with the Malfoy’s holly one. The students watched, awed by my sudden appearance.  
  
“P-Professor!” Finch-Flechley said. “I didn’t see you there.”  
  
“Of course not. I was invisible. I’m always invisible. And watching you.”  
  
The students simultaneously shuddered. I sighed. “I’m very disappointed in you both for fighting like this.”  
  
Malfoy said, “But, Professor Potter –“  
  
“Thirty points from Gryffindor for this outrageous spectacle,” I finished.  
  
The two traded a confused look, earlier enmity forgotten. The girl said, “We’re Hufflepuffs.”  
  
I raised a finger to my lips. “Shhhh. Nobody needs to know that.”  
  
“This is the Hufflepuff class,” Pucey said.  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “The Hufflepuff _and_ Slytherin class.”  
  
“Well, yeah, but Rose is out,” one of the Muggleborns said.  
  
“She’s sick,” Malfoy added.  
  
I gestured towards the right half of the classroom. “Take a seat.”  
  
“Do we _have_ to sit on the Hufflepuff side, sir?” Pucey asked as they squeezed onto the benches.  
  
I frowned, surveying the class. Hufflepuff had benefited from Slytherin’s fall, swelling to one and a half times its original size and becoming the largest Hogwarts house. In a few years, they might even have a chance at the Cup.  
  
“I suppose not,” I said. “I must warn you, however, that traveling to the Slytherin side may be considered traitorous to your house. Who’s first?”  
  
Zabini moved reluctantly, yet, soon, the group was equally split. In fairness, it was very crowded.  
  
“That was a clever idea, Mr. Pucey. Fifty points to Ravenclaw!”  
  
While my system isn’t perfect, it’s still fairer than what Snape used to do.  
  
Fawkes landed on my shoulder as I said, “I have yet to formally welcome you all to Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Potter. Some of you may know me as Harry Potter, the man who defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort. If you do not know me, I’m Harry Potter. I defeated Voldemort.”  
  
There were a few appreciative murmurs, although not nearly as many as I had once received. Time, it seemed, had dulled the grandeur of my achievements. These children had only known peace.  
  
I continued, “Now, on to our lesson: The basilisk has gone mad, attacking everyone regardless of blood status. Merely to gaze into its eyes means immediate death. Zabini, WHAT DO YOU DO?”  
  
Zabini’s black eyes widened in panic. “Wh-what?”  
  
I paused. The correct answer was to use a mirror to Petrify yourself. Though this does nothing to defeat the basilisk, that’s already a lost cause, and at least you’re safe. Perhaps that was too advanced for our first class. Turning to Pucey, I said, “The Merpeople drag you into the Lake –“  
  
Pucey wrinkled his brow in a very Weasley fashion. “Merpeople very rarely venture towards the surface. Why would they attack someone on land?”  
  
I waved his concerns aside. “They want some sort of inexplicable vengeance. You try to ask them about it, but water floods your mouth before you can say a word. The last of your air is gone.”  
  
Finch-Flechley regarded me coldly from behind her glasses. “This is stupid. None of this will ever happen.”  
  
“You want something more mundane? Fine,” I snapped. “You, Finch-Flechley, fall from the moving staircase. You have the next three seconds before your neck snaps on the stone below.”  
  
The girl gaped. “That actually happened?”  
  
“The last incident was in May. Mr. Abbott saved himself, but you just used _your_ three seconds to ask a question…Does _anyone else_ know what to do?”  
  
A timid redhead raised her hand. “The Levitation Charm, maybe?”  
  
“Very good, Miss...?”  
  
“Puttock, sir,” she whispered.  
  
I nodded. “Do any of you know how to perform the Levitation Charm?”  
  
Puttock’s hand darted downwards, and only a few other students rose theirs. I said, “Then I suppose we’ll have to learn it, won’t we?”  
  
The Hufflepuffs nodded, some more eagerly than others.  
  
I shall spend the rest of eternity as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. Of course, I would have to explain my immortality to avoid the inevitable rumors…and, first, I should ensure that I am actually immortal.  
  
Come to think of it, whatever did happen to the Philosopher’s Stone?  
  
As I weaved through my students, helping the clumsier ones with their wandwork, I decided to subtly inquire about the artifact.

* * *

“So, Snape, whatever did happen to the Philosopher’s Stone?”  
  
Severus regarded me from across the Headmaster’s desk. “It is in the Mirror of Erised. Apparently, you can only get it out if you don’t want it. But everyone does because it makes you immortal. Even if we don’t tell them what it is, they still want it because we asked them to get it.”  
  
I frowned. “Did you try getting a student to do it?”  
  
“You _._ ”  
  
Hm. That hardly counted, since I was actively out to steal the Stone, at the time.  
  
My eyes trailed across the office, now devoid of spinning knickknacks and well-polished candy bowls. The visitor’s chair had clearly received a Discomfort Charm or two, and even the old Headmasters’ portraits had worn around the edges after increasingly vicious attempts to tear them from the walls. Dumbledore watched us with a knowing gleam in his eyes, and, on a shelf below him, the Sorting Hat leaned forward to better eavesdrop.  
  
Severus interrupted my thoughtful silence. “Not one day under your care, and Miss Weasley has already started skipping classes. I’m not sure why I’m surprised.”  
  
I said, “Frankly, I’m not even sure why you made me the Head of Slytherin.”  
  
“Because you are the only Slytherin on staff.”  
  
“I’m a Gryffindor.”  
  
Severus raised an eyebrow. “Potter, even the Hat thinks you are a Slytherin, and the Hat doesn’t think _anyone_ is a Slytherin.”  
  
I snorted. “It’s clearly screwing with us. Hat, what house does Snape belong in?”  
  
The Sorting Hat’s face crumpled into a wide smile. “Severus Snape is a true _Gryffindor._ ”  
  
“I very much agree,” Dumbledore’s portrait said.  
  
Severus tossed a Silencing Spell over his shoulder, while Dumbledore ducked into Phineas Nigellus Black’s frame.  
  
Come to think of it, it had been a while since I’d checked in on my most active Horcrux. I held out my hand. “Accio Sorting Hat.”  
  
I grasped the Hat and deposited it atop my head. “So, how’s it going?”  
  
He hummed thoughtfully, inwardly remarking. “Better than you’d think. I pretty much have everything I’ve ever wanted: immortality, a place at Hogwarts, the ability to manipulate the destinies of children…”  
  
“Yes, about that.”  
  
The Hat’s fabric curled upwards to mimic a raised eyebrow, a deeply disconcerting movement for something pressed against my forehead. “You have a problem with the way I, the Sorting Hat, have been Sorting?”  
  
I chuckled uneasily. Why must I be so brilliant and impossible to manipulate? “No, not at all. It’s just that this whole Slytherin thing is getting a little ridiculous. It made sense just after the war, when no one wanted to go to Slytherin, but –“  
  
The Hat shivered with fury. “I gave you the Weasley girl. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”  
  
“More of them,” I said simply.  
  
“Then send me more Slytherins. We have standards, now. I’ve mentioned it in every song for the past thirteen years.”  
  
“Yes, I recall. Those parts don’t rhyme very well.”  
  
The Sorting Hat spat, “I’d like to see you rhyme with _cleansing_.”  
  
He had me there, and we both knew it. I turned to Severus, who alternated between attending to paperwork and sneering in our direction. “We should probably stop before Snape destroys his office again.”  
  
The Sorting Hat cajoled, “Let’s hold off for a while. I do so love to torment him until he hexes me.”  
  
“Do those actually affect you?” I asked.  
  
“Not at all, but there’s no sense in encouraging him to find something that will.”  
  
We shared a good laugh about that, loudly, before I sent him back to his shelf with a flick of my hand.  
  
“He really is quite delightful,” I informed a glowering Severus.  
  
“Feel free to take him with you on your way out,” he said dourly. “Additionally, inform Ginevra that her new lesson plan has been rejected by the Board.”  
  
I scowled. “Why should I have to tell her?”  
  
“Potter, the two of you have been dating for over a decade.”  
  
I frowned. “Wait, really? Oh…that explains a lot. I don’t suppose you could promise not to tell anyone that I didn’t know that?”  
  
“I don’t have casual conversation with _anyone_ , Potter.”  
  
“Except for me,” I said. Dumbledore’s portrait smiled at this pronouncement, giving me a thumbs up.  
  
“No,” Severus said. “I only brought you in here today to discuss the many complaints you’ve earned…”  
  
“Like you have any room to talk. You got a dozen complaints a week when you were a professor, and those were just mine,” I said.  
  
Save for a twitch of the eye, Severus ignored me. “…at which point you started shouting about the Philosopher’s Stone.”

* * *

The fireplace flared up, and Fawkes beat his wings at it to establish dominance.  
  
Hermione and Ron stepped into my office, still wearing the brightly-colored suits that were so popular in the modern Ministry of Magic. The phoenix ignored the new arrivals in favor of glaring at the defiant flames, while I welcomed them with a cheerful, “Congratulations on conquering Wizarding Britain, Hermione!”  
  
“I was elected, Harry,” Hermione said.  
  
“Sure you were” - I winked - “I’m certain there wasn’t any coercion involved _at all_.”  
  
She frowned, ceding my point. “Well, I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘coercion.’ This _is_ politics.”  
  
Sensing the danger this conversation held to his wife’s thin veneer as a “Light” witch, Ron interrupted us. “It was good hearing you’d finally asked Ginny to marry you.”  
  
Hermione beamed. “Oh, yes! Honestly, I was starting to think your relationship was _entirely_ one-sided.”  
  
Ron slung an arm around Hermione’s shoulder. “But I told her, ‘Mione, even Harry isn’t that dense. Don’t go putting your nose in it.’”  
  
“Yes, of course, I’m terribly grateful,” I said hurriedly. “I’ll admit that I was surprised to see you two for this parent-teacher conference. I don’t think we’ve ever had one of these that wasn’t a front for a Death Eater attack.”  
  
As an afterthought, I checked their identities with a covert spell.  
  
Hermione raised her chin haughtily, declaring, “Well, we could hardly send Rose off to school without checking up on her, particularly given the circumstances.”  
  
“’Sides, you’re our friend, so it’s not all that bad,” Ron said. “I wouldn’t have gone back to Snape’s office for anything.”  
  
Hermione elbowed his side, sent him a dark glare, then turned back to me with a deceptively innocent smile. I led the couple to my desk, gesturing for them to sit in the child-sized chairs. At Hermione’s unamused look, I transfigured one of them into a throne more befitting her current status.  
  
“I imagine it’s quite difficult to let go of your power, even for such a short visit,” I commiserated. After all, a lack of supervision had been the death of many a Dark Lord and Lady’s once-successful campaigns.  
  
“Oh, no,” Hermione said. “It’s more difficult getting time off for Ron than me.”  
  
Ron grinned. “Can’t get away during the full moon. You know how it is, mate.”  
  
Hermione continued, “My secretary is perfectly capable of handling things for a few hours.”  
  
“Ah, yes, how is Malfoy?” I inquired.  
  
“Still a bit upset that his son is a Hufflepuff,” she admitted, “but I think he’s taken some comfort in the fact that he’s one of the Slytherin Hufflepuffs.”  
  
“At least Scorpius gets to be the minion of a real Slytherin,” I said.  
  
“About that” - Hermione bit down on her lip but released it a moment later, likely Malfoy’s influence - “I know a decent amount about Rose’s life, of course. She sends plenty of letters, but I’m just not entirely sure…I don’t suppose you could tell me…”  
  
“How’s she doing?” Ron interrupted. Hermione laughed softly, gesturing for me to answer his question.  
  
“Perfectly fine, under the circumstances,” I said. “She’s been gaining influence, asserting her power, preparing her lair -“  
  
“Lair?” Hermione said weakly. The couple seemed rather pale, though that was likely because I had chosen a gloomy, prophecy-lighted ambiance over windows.  
  
“The Slytherin dorms. It’s built to house hundreds. She’s already setting traps…”  
  
Ron winced.  
  
“…and we’re in negotiations for a possible sleep-over,” I finished.  
  
Hermione smiled. “Well, that sounds nice. It would be good to get her around other children outside of classes, especially when she lacks the innate bonding of the house system.”  
  
Ron leaned back in his tiny chair, forehead wrinkled and Weasley eyes squinted. “What do you do when she gets in trouble?”  
  
“Why would she possibly be getting in trouble?” Hermione said sharply.  
  
He shrugged. “Dunno. Just wondering. I mean, there’s not much use taking points since she’s the only Slytherin and all…”  
  
“Rose actually does have a fairly decent chance at the Cup,” I said.  
  
Hermione blinked. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“It turns out that most students end up with a negative number of points but are dragged up by the outliers. Rose is one of the outliers, without the dead weight.”  
  
“But she’s still only one student,” Hermione said.

I smirked. “Also, Snape still favors Slytherin.”  
  
“’Course he does,” Ron muttered darkly.  
  
“For the moment, she’s coping well,” I continued. “My main concern is next year, when she’ll have to be the Slytherin Quidditch team.”

* * *

“...Then, as the Leaving Feast is just about to begin, I will give you exactly as many points as you need to win,” I finished as we crept, invisibly, around McGonagall’s chess board. The pieces knew that we were there, but they lacked the intelligence to find us.  
  
Rose shook her head. “I don’t want that. Everyone will hate me.”  
  
I sighed. “What _do_ you want then?”  
  
Rose looked up at me, her eyes shining. “I want to find the room that gives you everything you want.”  
  
The Room of Requirement had long since joined Hogwarts’ many legends. “That can be arranged.”  
  
With a Flame-Freezing charm, we passed into the final room of Dumbledore’s maze. I gestured towards the mirror.  
  
Rose straightened her back as she approached it, yet her composure fell when she saw her reflection. “I’m with some of the Hufflepuffs, at the Slytherin Table. We’re laughing and talking and…We’re all wearing green!”  
  
“Weasley, focus!” I snapped.  
  
She shook her head, forcibly jarring herself from the enchantment. With renewed determination, Rose set about trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, as I did at her age.  
  
I checked the time.  
  
 _9:06 AM_  
  
While waiting, I created a throne out of McGonagall’s chess pieces. There was still a bit of life to them, but the twitching of spears and swords kept me from becoming too bored.  
  
“Tempus.”  
  
 _9:45 AM_  
  
Rose had begun threatening the mirror in increasingly creative ways. While I suspected her mother would disapprove of such blatant tactics, she would no doubt applaud her vocabulary.  
  
“Tempus.”  
  
 _11:12 AM_  
  
I finished the last of my grading, tucking the papers into a corner where they would hopefully be safe from Rose’s barrage of hexes.  
  
“Tempus.”  
  
 _1:00 PM_  
  
“Dobby,” I called. “Get us lunch.”  
  
He fetched us the Malfoys’ latest cuisine and served it on their silver, occasionally impaling himself on my throne.  
  
“Tempus.”  
  
 _3:18 PM_  
  
“I GIVE UP!” Rose yelled, still glaring at the mirror. She had, I thought fondly, found her first nemesis.  
  
“I suppose we could take a short break,” I said.  
  
“No,” she said. “No breaks. I’m done. This is stupid.”  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “But what about the room that gives you everything you want?”  
  
“I don’t care anymore. I am _never_ looking at this bloody mirror again,” she hissed. “ _That_ is the only thing I want right now!”  
  
With that, Rose’s hand fell into the pocket of her robes, and a smirk curled across her Weasley face. She pulled out a glinting, red stone and held it triumphantly in the air. “Hah! Got it.”  
  
“Very good,” I said, bringing it into my possession with a lazy gesture. “One of the trials is hidden in the Fifth Year Slytherin Girl’s Dormitory. It should provide clues to find the others.”  
  
The girl sprinted away, eager to begin her latest quest. Of course, the Flame-Freezing Charm had worn off, and she had no way to escape the room. It occurred to me that I should probably help her before she accidentally (or, more likely, intentionally) destroyed the castle.  
  
Passing the object that had once guarded a chance at immortality, I glanced at my reflection. I gave a jaunty wave to my other self and shared a grin with him. It seemed that with the loss of the Philosopher’s Stone, whatever magic Dumbledore had worked on the artifact had disappeared.  
  
It was only a mirror now.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Let's give some love to Lord of the Tundra & Cyberswordsmen, my older brothers, who were heavily involved in brainstorming and refining this fic. Seventh Horcrux would not exist without them. 
> 
> ...Of course, I still take credit for like 3/4 of the jokes and for actually writing the damned thing. ;)


	21. Omakes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humorous omakes, musings from the author, outtakes from the cutting room floor, and a few snippets from Rose Weasley's story.

**First Year: A Dream Come True**

I shuffled my feet. “Erm, as long as we’re down here, I wanted to ask about my summer living arrangements. I can’t go back to the Dursleys. I-I might kill them.”

“Surely you’re exaggerating,” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling.

“No,” I insisted, glancing at Quirrel’s smoking corpse. “You misunderstand. I might actually murder them.”

He stared at me gravely. “You aren’t allowed to use magic over the summers, Harry.”

I looked him dead in the eye and pushed some absolutely _fascinating_ images to the front of my mind. “You think I need _magic_ to kill? Muggles kill each other all the time. They’ve practically made an art form out of it. Besides, I live in the same house as the Dursleys. Eventually, they’ll sleep. Oh, they’ll sleep…”

* * *

“…and that’s why I’m staying in the castle this summer,” I finished smugly.

Hermione blinked, “Harry, sometimes you really scare me.”

I smirked. “Aw, you’re just jealous that I get to spend two extra months in the library.”

Hermione denied it, but I knew the truth.

**Anytime: Cognitive Dissonance**

“Hermione, are you trying to imply that I can’t believe two things at once? I find that offensive.”

Hermione frowned. “Harry, no one can. That’s a sign of insanity.”

**Author’s Musings:**

**Come-uppance**

The treatment of Severus Snape in canon is…weird. He spends an inordinate amount of time tormenting children and generally being nasty to everyone he meets. But then he turns out to be on the right side of the war so INSTANT REDEMPTION.

The fan fiction community is split between wanting to punish him for being such a bastard and making him earn that redemption by becoming a somewhat likable person.

In Seventh Horcrux, Severus is actually fairly likeable. He’s still a jerk, but he’s mainly shown being a jerk to Harry who is equally jerkish back and, depending on your view, may be twice Snape’s age. When Harry asserts that Snape is his rival, _Hermione doesn’t argue with him._

Additionally, Severus gets to spend the rest of his life in his own personal hell, surrounded by people he despises: Harry, Harry’s girlfriend, Sirius Black, Dumbledore’s portrait, and Volde-Hat. Of course, as Dumbledore constantly asserts, it’s possible he secretly likes them…

**Author’s Musings:**

**Sirius Business**

It just occurred to me that I accidentally parodied myself.

Once upon a time, I planned to make a fic in which everyone’s misconceptions about Sirius in Third Year were spot on. He was the spy, tricking everyone, betraying the Potters, and now out for revenge against Harry Potter (making him the perfect candidate for the DADA position, come to think of it). This Sirius, despite being a vicious Death Eater, would have the exact same personality as in canon. After all, being a villain doesn’t mean being a _drag_ , right?

In this fic, everyone assumes that silly Sirius Black is an evil Death Eater, and he totally rolls with it while pranking evildoers along the way.

**Third Year: The Infamous Sirius Black**

Black had stolen my wand. The Great Lord Voldemort had been felled by an Expelliarmus and, soon, he would be vanquished by his own deranged follower. Perhaps the Horcrux would push me into another body, but, right now, the only available options were my only competent minion, a fugitive, and the Weasley.

I had invested far too much into this life to become a Weasley.

I had to reveal my true identity. My voice shook. “Wait! Before you kill me, there’s something I need to tell you – “

Black interrupted, “I’m not going to kill you. I could never kill you, Harry.”

I blinked in surprise. I probably shouldn’t have pressed my luck, but I always was curious. “Wait. You are Sirius Black, right? The vengeful, unhinged Death Eater who betrayed my parents and exploded some Muggles?”

“I was framed.”

“Oh. That’s nice. Never mind about what I was going to say before, then.”

**Third Year: Bloody Gryffindors…**

“You should have realized,” Lupin said quietly, “if Voldemort didn’t kill you, we would. Good-bye, Peter.”

“I’ll kill him!”

Everyone turned to me in shock. “What? You can’t do that,” Lupin argued.

“He killed my parents. I get dibs,” I said.

“You’re only thirteen, Harry. Leave this to us” - Sirius flashed a feral smile - “We’ll handle this.”

I snorted. “Like there’s an age limit on murder. Really, you’re a Black. I thought you’d know better than that. Now, move aside, I’ve just discovered this absolutely delightful cutting curse and I’d like to put it to good use.”

Lupin said, “This is wrong. We should turn him in.”

“Fine,” Black reluctantly agreed. “I guess I’d rather not do this in front of Harry, anyway. We’ll take the rat to Dumbledore, and he _will_ be Kissed.”

They nodded and shook hands.

I stifled a whine. This was what I hated about Gryffindors. They always turned a perfectly good murder into some sort of moral lesson. At this rate, I’d never make that new Horcrux.

“Scabbers, er, Pettigrew’s gone.” the Weasley said. Apparently, while Lupin and Black had been making friends and sharing epiphanies, my ex-informant had scurried off into the night.

“This never would have happened if you’d let me murder him.”

**Third Year: Happy Memories**

“Harry? How did you summon that Patronus?” Hermione was referring to the silvery snake I’d unleashed upon a crowd of dementors to save her, Black, and me. Mostly me.

Many people believe that someone as evil as Lord Voldemort could never use such powerful light magic. However, a Patronus is generated from a happy memory, not a nice one. My happiest memories just happen to involve a lot of blood.

“I defeated Lord Voldemort. I can do anything.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right, sure, now tell me how you really did it.”

Sometimes I hate having clever minions.

I shrugged. “The school was besieged by dementors. I wanted to protect myself.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” she whined, eyes big and tearful. It was scary how good she was getting at manipulating people. I suspect I may be a bad influence.

Oh well.

“What about that time turner of yours? You didn’t tell me that you had control over the very fabric of reality. We could have done such glorious things…” I said.

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” she said with a smirk.

Oh, she _was_ evil…

**Fifth Year: Career Success**

**(In the first draft of the Department of Mysteries break-in, Ron was dragged off after being mistaken for Percy, leading to…)**

Hermione glanced around the Ministry, as if expecting an alarm to go off at any moment. “We’re getting Ron now, right?”

I smirked. “I don’t know why we would. He’s got a cushy Ministry job now. He’s doing better than either of us.”

“Y…You’re joking right?”

“I should think that would be obvious.”

She shrugged. “Well, if it was anyone else, it would be. But, when we first became friends, I thought you had a really dark sense of humor. Then I got to know you and wasn’t sure you knew what jokes were. So this is a nice surprise.”

**Fifth Year: It’s Ruined Forever!**

“I feel pretty good about how that went,” I said, “even if I did just ruin the House Cup forever.”

Hermione wrinkled her brow. “What do you mean?”

“Now, everyone knows that anyone can give or take points.”

Hermione said, “Harry, no one knows that. Is that true, or are you doing that weird argument thing again?”

“No, I legitimately had no authority to do that. I don’t think the Inquisitorial Squad did, either.”

“Oh,” she said weakly. “So it’s completely run on the honor system, then?”

I shrugged. “Presumably. You shouldn’t tell anyone, though, or it will ruin the House Cup forever.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hermione said, clearly scheming about how to use this information to her advantage.

**Anytime: Perfectly Natural**

I said, “Who do you trust more: Me or Ron?”

“Ron,” Hermione said.

I nodded. “Exac…Wait, Ron? You came to that conclusion surprisingly quickly considering he is an idiot.”

“Ron is not an idiot,” she said. “He’s simply immature, which is perfectly natural for someone his age.”

“Mione, we’re the same age,” Ron said.

“Quiet, Ron.”

I smirked. “As a Department of Mysteries employee, she’s probably in her mid to late thirties –“

“Quiet, Harry.”

**Fifth Year: Grey!Indy!Harry** or **Luna Reads Fanfiction**

Luna flagged me down, asking, “Harry, when you were younger, did you realize that everyone was secretly manipulating you, and that the only way you could survive to adulthood was if you forged your own, independent path? And could you only do that by becoming dangerous through illegal potions and time turner abuse?”

“No. I would have like to do that, but Hermione is selfish,” I explained. It really was a pity. We could have been great…well, great _er_.

Luna nodded with sympathetic understanding. “I see.”

“How’d you come up with that one?” I asked.

“You publically denounce Dumbledore a lot, and you keep mentioning how you’re neutral against Voldemort…which I think makes you a Grey Wizard.”

I frowned. “I’m not familiar with the term.”

“Now and again, one of them emerges to destroy both the Dark and Light Lords, restoring balance to the world. But, mostly, they don’t do very much. We had an article about them in last month’s Quibbler.”

(P.S. Luna couldn’t appear in the Epilogue because she had to move on to her next fanfic, where she joins a harem and acts incredibly out of character. It’s a little embarrassing, but, hey, it’s a living.)

**Author’s Musings:**

**Ship-Sinking**

Seventh Horcrux stuck to canon pairings primarily because this is not a shipping fanfic, so a strong romance would have seemed fairly derailing.

However, there are other reasons that certain ships didn’t occur.

Hermione is a tertiary main character, behind only Harry and Voldemort in terms of narrative weight. This leads to extra character development and the screen time necessary to bond with a character - always good in a love interest.

However, Harry and Hermione take turns being each other’s mentor/parental figure. They’re constantly in teacher mode, explaining why this is so or why that is irrevocably evil (and why would you do that?!). While their friendship is bloody heartwarming, in my humble opinion, Harry sees Hermione as his young, evil apprentice and Hermione sees Harry as worryingly immature. As she puts it, “Harry doesn’t even understand what being a girl means.”

Hermione deserves a mature, adult relationship, and Harry could never, ever give her one of those.

There was also noticeable support on Spacebattles for the Harry/Luna ship (…Larrymort? Insanity Shipping?). I understand where this comes from: Harry shows legitimate concern about Luna’s feelings and Luna is both curious about Harry and comes closest to recognizing his particular mess of issues.

However, it is worth noting that both characters are insane. Due to Harry’s propensity for accepting the views of whoever he is speaking to at any given moment, he would soon adopt many of Luna’s beliefs. Eventually, they would begin to orbit around each other’s madness, spiraling deeper and deeper into outer space while the baffled citizens of Earth could only watch in confusion.

…Besides, can you imagine either of them having the interest or attention span required to start dating?

**Sixth Year: Summer Vacation in Antarctica**

It was a perfectly reasonable plan:

I’d been going in circles for weeks, and none of those circles were taking me anywhere near England. So I decided to go in one direction, south, until I hit the southernmost part of the world. From there, the only place I could go would be north.

Mind you, that just landed me in Canada. But at least that was the correct hemisphere.

**Sixth Year: Negotiations**

I surveyed the dementor floating in front of me. “Two victims for every minion you return with a soul.”

It stared at me.

“You drive a hard bargain,” I acknowledged. “Three.”

Lucius frowned. “My lord, I don’t think it speaks English.”

I snorted. “I won’t debase myself by using French. You deal with it.”

I stalked off, leaving a rapidly-paling Lucius with the advancing dementor.

**Author’s Musings:**

**Ship-Launching**

Harry believes himself to be a seventy-year-old man. So pursuing teenage girls is creepy.

Harry is Voldemort, a mass-murdering snake-dude and villain of the series. So pursuing teenage girls is _creepy_.

Harry is mildly insane, narcissistic, self-centered, expects to be pursued and wooed (not the pursuer and wooer) because he is _clearly_ the desirable one, and is vaguely suspicious of all love-shaped feelings. So pursuing teenage girls is…incredibly out of character.

Suffice it to say, I realized fairly early on that the only way Harry would end up in a relationship was if he had zero involvement in the process.

Under the circumstances? It was either immortal bachelorhood or a…relationship is certainly the wrong word…with the ever-energetic and obsessively devoted Ginevra Weasley.

It’s cute, in a creepy sort of way, and isn’t that what Seventh Horcrux is all about?

I would also like to take a moment to contemplate our beta couple: Hermione and Ron.

While I didn’t mind this ship in canon, the whole “opposites attract” thing always gives me a bad feeling. In this fic, however, they have a _bit_ more in common. First and foremost, they’ve spent the past seven years bonding over their bizarre friend and how to keep him from dying in a trunk.

Additionally, they grew as characters. Hermione learned to loosen up, that authority figures are shockingly bad at everything in Magical Britain, and that genocide is not okay.

Ron, meanwhile, benefitted very much from Harrymort’s existence. In canon, Ron’s jealousy sprung from his belief that Harry had everything Ron wanted (money and fame) even though Harry was just an ordinary bloke, and then the guy had the gall to be ungrateful for it.

Harrymort, in contrast, is a genius who knows all these crazy spells _and_ he clearly adores both attention and his (long-lost, Dumbledore-stolen) riches. Ron’s jealousy is further lightened by the fact that Harry includes him in adventures that he really shouldn’t be involved with. After all, Ron had his dozen chances with the Goblet of Fire, too.

There is no way that Ron can compete with Harry and Hermione, but, because they’re his best friends, Ron at least attempts to keep up with them (though he gets no respect for this, on Harry’s end). Even unintentional cruelty on Harry’s part, such as the stunner thing and declaring Ron a Weasley werewolf, caused the redhead to improve himself and find new interests. He even becomes a Werewolf Rights Activist, a sure plus in Hermione’s books.

Also, Hermione did get Ron eaten by a werewolf that one time, so she kind of owes him.

**Sixth Year: Inside Luna’s Head**

Ginny just apologized for Harry. They’re dating; she’s been saying so for years. Only when he’s out of the room, though, because he fears commitment. Clearly, boyfriends and girlfriends can apologize for each other’s rudeness.

Hermione is being rude to me, so either she has to apologize or Ron does. After all, everyone knows they’re together. Ginny’s been saying so for years

**Seventh Year: Poor Planning**

Hermione gingerly stepped into the waterlogged house, the floorboards groaning underneath her. Shattered and water-stained pictures of a fat, blond boy littered the floor and glass had been banished to the corners. Several members of the Order of the Phoenix milled about the abandoned home, whispering in anxious clusters. A pink-haired woman walked towards Hermione, apparently tripping on thin air shortly before reaching her.

“Wotcher, Hermione.”

Hermione smiled. “Good morning, Tonks. Do you know why we’re here instead of the Burrow?”

The older girl shrugged. “Some sort of rescue mission.”

Moody stomped over to Hermione, his peg leg sending worrisome shudders through the house. He glared at the space next to her. “Potter, why is your house destroyed?”

I said, “I haven’t lived here in years.”

“Your family moved?” he asked.

I shrugged. “They left after a flashflood. I’ve been living in a trunk.”

Tonks gaped. “That Skeeter article was true?!”

The Weasley twins grinned, slinging their arms around my shoulders. “Harry, we came to rescue you –“

“–but it turns out that you weren’t here to be rescued –“ the second twin said.

“So why are you here now?” the first finished.

“Hermione mentioned an Order meeting. I was bored,” I said.

Fleur Delacour flounced over. “Eet is fine. We came to rescue ze little boy, and he eez here. So we shall do zat.”

Moody snorted. “Right. I’ve got the polyjuice here. We all turn into Potter and –“

“Wait, why would we all turn into someone they want to kill?” I asked. “That seems like a terrible idea.”

“You’ve got a better suggestion, do ya?” Moody growled.

I said, “I leave under the cloak, and the rest of you wander off looking vaguely confused.”

I smiled at their dumbfounded faces. They took direction easily, a clear sign that Dumbledore had trained his minions well.

**Anytime: Various Reasons, Really**

The problem with Wizarding Britain is that the people are afraid of change. That’s why I, a man supporting many sensible yet liberal policies, faced so much resistance from the public:

Fear of change.

Also the murder…

**A Fun Fact**

Up until the final scene of Fourth Year, I hadn’t decided if Voldemort would be identical to canon, meaning that Harry was a shoddy copy job, or if they would be exactly the same person. I’m immensely pleased with my decision.

**Clap Your Hands if You Believe!**

Voldemort, from a very young age, had an affinity to magic. This was because he never even considered the possibility that reality would refuse to bend to his will. That it cheerfully went on to obey his every command was…unfortunate for his development.

In contrast, Neville assumed that the world would actively sabotage everything he did. It was happy to oblige.

**Childhood Habits**

Picture this: A young boy enters the wizarding world. He is cunning, ambitious, and unreasonably fond of snakes. One day, that boy will grow up to be a snake. He is, you see, a shoo-in for Slytherin.

He also appears to be a mudblood.

He is never going to fit in, so he has to be better, smarter. Scarier.

He certainly can’t be asking _questions_. That makes him look like an idiot and showcase his shameful, Muggle past. So the boy figures things out on his own.

But he can’t get things right all the time. Despite his arrogance, he knows this. When someone says something that seems untrue, he assumes they know what they’re talking about and rolls with it, going to insane lengths to prove that he knew it all along.

…this is how Harrymort ends up engaged to Ginevra Weasley.

**Seventh Year: Confrontations**

Mr. Granger exclaimed, “Erasing people’s memories?! Is _that_ the sort of thing you’ve been learning in that school of yours?”

“Um, no,” Hermione murmured. “Hogwarts doesn’t teach that, and I’m not even going there anymore. I left last summer.”

The Grangers shared a concerned look. Mrs. Granger took a deep breath. “Sweetie, you know that we love you even though you dropped out of school, right? You didn’t need to make us forget that we ever had a daughter. We’re still proud of you.”

Mr. Granger cleared his throat.

His wife said, “Maybe a little less proud, after this memory-erasing thing.”

I could see Hermione’s hand trembling, longing to grab her wand and obliviate them again. She would then repeat this conversation, again and again, until she found a scenario in which her parents accepted being murdered. This would presumably occur due to Oblivation-induced brain damage.

To resist her horrible impulse, Hermione jumped into my trunk and locked herself inside.

**Romcom Trailer**

*Funky music plays*

*The camera sweeps over the Great Hall*

**She was a girl still longing for the boy who possessed her body**

*Ginny Weasley walks through the halls, chatting with friends and casting longing looks in Harry’s direction*

**Literally**

*Young Ginny stands in the Chamber of Secrets*

*The camera zooms in on the diary in her hands*

**He was an Imperioed boy dodging love potions**

*Harry pushes away his plate*

“Ginevra, did you put love potion in my eggs?”

**And love**

*Pan over the Gryffindor common room where Harry is gesticulating wildly*

“Eventually, you become nauseous the second you feel the effects of a love potion.”

*Hermione frowns*

“So…anytime you feel love, then?”

**Could one great journey**

*Ginny dodges spells, throwing her own back at the enemy*

*Harry is invisible*

**Bring them together?**

“I would do anything for you.”

*Ginny leans in to kiss Harry*

*Harry is invisible*

**This Christmas**

**Will they be able to overcome their many…**

“I command the Basilisk.”

*A giant snake looms over Ginny*

… **many, many…**

*Hermione groans*

*Harry is invisible*

“Harry, _please_ take off the cloak.”

… **MANY issues?**

“Look, Ginny, we have enough Weasleys. I don’t need the two of you stalemating.”

*A single tear falls down Ginny’s cheek*

“But I’m different from my brothers!”

**A Very Harry Romance**

**Directed by: Rita Skeeter**

*Ginevra is enjoying a picnic on the war torn Hogwarts grounds*

*Harry is invisible*

**Author’s Musings:**

**More Than Just Parseltongue…**

In Third Year, Harry accuses Ginevra of being a Legilimens after she comments on his loud conversation about time travel. A few chapters later, I realized that I wrote her as one: She knows everyone’s secrets and blithely responds to Harry’s internal monologue.

Could Diary have left more behind than a few words of Parseltongue and a twisted worldview?

**Dumbledore’s Office, after the final battle:**

“…so we were hoping that you could explain your master plan,” I finished.

Dumbledore’s portrait peered down at our expectant faces and exclaimed, “I’m even more baffled than you are!”

***

**It’s all after the epilogue from here on out, guys!**

If I were to make a sequel to Seventh Horcrux, I would call it:

The Adventures of Rose Weasley

The Last Slytherin

The First Slytherin

The Only Slytherin

…I’m so Lonely

**Yet Another Trailer**

**She was chosen**

*The Sorting Hat’s eyes widen*

“You are like me. You are…a SLYTHERIN!”

**She faced her greatest fears**

*Rose stares desperately into Harry Potter’s eyes, a teacup clenched in her hands*

“Uncle Harry, what if I’m the only Slytherin because I’m the only student who’s evil?”

**She faced adversity**

“Look, kid, we’re the real Slytherins around here.”

*An older Hufflepuff shoves Rose*

**She faced isolation**

*Rose Weasley stands up from her seat at the empty Slytherin table*

“SCREW THIS! I’m sitting with the Hufflepuffs.”

**But can Rose face…**

*In the depths of the Lake, a merman’s eye snaps open*

… **Her greatest challenge yet?**

*Harry Potter paces his classroom*

“A merman drags you underwater…”

“Why?” a student asks.

“They want…”

*The camera pans over the Lake as creatures begin to surface*

“VENGEANCE.”

*Music grows dramatic*

**This summer**

*Rose clutches her wand, eyes wide*

“Uncle Harry, why are _we_ doing this?”

*Harry laughs*

“Because Neville is still in Albania!”

**Join the adventure**

*Rose gasps, taking a tentative step towards something we cannot see*

“Aunt Luna?”

**The Adventures of Rose Weasley:**

**In Atlantis**

*Hedwig’s Theme Plays*

*The camera comes to rest atop the placid lake, Hogwarts towering above it*

*FADE TO BLACK*

**An Unfortunately Typical History Class**

“Um, Aunt Gi…I mean Professor Weasley?” Rose said softly.

The woman turned from staring dreamily at her left hand to staring dreamily at the wall behind Rose’s head. Rose spent a moment convincing herself that that was a good thing. Aunt Ginny said, “Yes, Rose?”

There were a few titters from the Ravenclaws, and Rose felt a flash of indignation. Aunt Ginny had promised not to treat her differently from the other kids, yet here she was calling her by her first name. Rose stifled her frustration, however, because something was clearly very wrong. “Um, aren’t you going to teach us history?”

Her smile widened to an unsettling size. “Who needs history? Last night was history. We should have a party!”

Rose looked around, but it seemed that the other students had left her alone to deal with her crazy aunt. “What happened?”

Aunt Ginny’s elbows rested on the table, and she cupped her face in her hands. “Harry finally noticed me!”

“But you’ve been together forever,” Rose said.

“I know! Nobody ever told him, though.”

Rose’s eye twitched. “You didn’t –“

Aunt Ginny hopped from her seat and squealed, “We’re engaged now!”

**To the Dungeons with Ye!**

I smoothed down the fabric of our couch, avoiding my mother’s eyes. “Um, it’s just…Sometimes, I feel like, on my first day, I was singled out and banished to the dungeons.”

“And _why_ do you feel that way?” Mum prodded.

I thought about it for a minute. “…Probably because I was sorted into an empty house and then banished to a lonely life in the dungeons. I mean, it’s cool to have the space and everything, but it’s kinda cold. Also, the common room gets all foggy, so I’m not really sure if it’s safe to stay in there. But it’s not like I can ask anyone because _no one lives in the dungeons_.”

“The Puffs used to,” Dad called from the kitchen.

I strained my neck to see him over the back of the couch. “Really? Why did they move, then?”

A voice echoed from the floo. “Because the castle wished to torment them, as is only natural.”

I leapt from my seat, racing to the floo. “Uncle Harry!”

**Hiring is** _**Hard** _

“Rose,” Uncle Harry said, “You have to remember that your professors may wish to kill you.”

“W-what?” I squeaked. “Why?”

“You see, many of our current staff were hired when Voldemort conquered the school. No one was ever replaced, however, because it’s very difficult to find good teaching staff.”

I was pretty sure this was one of those times when I wasn’t supposed to listen to my uncle. Mum always said that Uncle Harry lies a lot, but we shouldn’t judge him for it because he doesn’t usually know that he’s lying.

Still, I didn’t want to die, and Harry _did_ know a lot about Dark wizards. “Really?”

Uncle Harry nodded. “Of course. Even _I_ was hired by a Death Eater.”

**The Sorting Hat’s New Song!**

For those who are quite brave, or just wish to look cool,

The red and gold of Gryffindor is your place in this school.

And Ravenclaw tower, home of the birds,

Makes room for the mad and for the nerds.

For those who have no talent or simply feel divided,

If no one else will take you, then it’s Hufflepuff decided.

Finally, there’s Slytherin, who wanted Purebloods who were cunning and ambitious, but apparently eleven-year-olds don’t usually have those qualities. So, mostly, he just got Purebloods, no matter how terrible. Fortunately, we have standards now.

…Wow!

**The New Heiress of Slytherin**

The newly-crowned Aunt Hermione Granger-Weasley, Dark Lady and Minister of Magic for the British Isles, smiled at my progeny. “She’s adorable, Harry. What’s her name?”

“Well, we decided that she needed a grand and terrifying title, much like Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. So I named her after all of my greatest enemies.”

Ron Weasley, conman and former werewolf, gaped at my brilliance. “You WHAT?”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “What did you end up with?”

“Her name is Severus Albus Lily Luna Lord Voldemort Potter.”

Ginevra smiled. “We call her Sally for short.”

“That’s as many syllables as she can remember,” I said fondly.

Ginevra giggled, kissing me on the cheek and not minding in the least as I flinched away.

Hermione frowned and said, “How are your mother and Luna considered enemies?”

I shrugged. “They don’t precisely fit the theme, but Ginevra insisted.”

Although, Lily _did_ slay me when I was a dark lord, and I’m pretty sure Luna tried to kill me once or twice.

Ron grinned. “We’re real happy for you, mate.”

“And we’re always willing to watch her for a while,” Hermione said, “since you’re keeping an eye on Rose.”

I nodded, pulling on my invisibility cloak. “Right, that reminds me. I should probably get back to Hogwarts and check on Rose’s lair.”

Hermione appeared concerned. “Her _what_?”

But it was too late. I was already gone.

**Author’s Musings:**

**A Paradigm Shift**

Seventh Horcrux is the story of Harry and his similarly insane friends in the somewhat silly world of Hogwarts. They proceed to take over that world, becoming professors, explorers, and the reigning Dark Lady of…ehem, excuse me, Minister of Magic.

The majority of these characters are not responsible adults, yet they all end up incredibly influential.

Rose Weasley would be the story of a fairly sane girl in Harry’s mad world.

**Professor Black is so Unfair!**

I don’t think Professor Black likes me very much, which is weird because I’ve never talked to him. He only teaches Third Years and above, after all. I think it’s because my parents were war heroes who killed the Dark Lord Voldemort, so being mean to me is a form of petty vengeance.

Scorpius thinks it’s because I call him a Death Eater in public a lot.

I’m not sure why that would be a problem, though. Uncle Harry says that Professor Black is really proud to be a Death Eater, since he was Voldemort’s right hand man.

**Author’s Musings:**

**Dealing with Draco**

There’s this really cool OC that pops up in a lot of HP fics. He’s suave, snarky, handsome, a bit of a git, but super good-looking. For some reason, people keep calling him Draco Malfoy.

In canon, Draco is none of those things. He’s whiny, spoiled, lacks willpower, rushes into dumb plans with a brashness that completely defies Slytherin claims of cunning, and fails at literally everything he tries. Sure, there’s some hints of an angsty redemption arc, but he never does all that much. At the end, we get a vague impression that he’s okay now for an ill-defined reason…a lot like Snape, actually.

The way I see it, there are three ways to deal with Draco in fanfics:

1) Just swap him out for cool-guy OC up there.

2) Make him a total git. This is probably closer to canon than the previous option, but it strays into bashing way too easily.

3) My preferred method: Try to keep Draco as close to canon as possible, then give him some vague redemption primarily in the background. Do not take this redemption, or Draco in general, seriously.

**Scorpius Malfoy: Bringing Shame upon the Malfoy Name**

“You’ve got to” – I tripped over a flagstone – “slow” – my shoulder smacked a wall – “down!”

Scorpius Malfoy abruptly did so, dropping the arm he’d been dragging me by as he pushed me into an abandoned classroom (a weirdly common thing at Hogwarts). He turned to the door, casting several charms to protect against nosy passersby.

“What’s up with you today?” I huffed.

He hurried towards me. Wide, grey eyes stared into mine from way-too-close a distance. Finally, he whispered, “You can’t tell my father about this.”

“O…kay,” I said.

He peered around the classroom, as if afraid of invisible eavesdroppers. This was ridiculous, of course. Uncle Harry had a class that period. “I think I’m a Hufflepuff.”

I stared at him. “You’re just noticing this now? It’s been two months, Scorp, and I’ve seen your dorms. They’re, like, _bright yellow.”_

Scorpius groaned, leaning back and out of my personal space. “Not like that. I mean…I don’t think that I’m one of the Slytherin Hufflepuffs. I might just be one of the Hufflepuff Hufflepuffs.”

I gasped. “No.”

“I mean, I’m not really ambitious or anything. Father’s always talking about how I should aspire to be some great politician, but I’m cool with just coasting by on my money and good looks.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What good looks?”

“I’m a Malfoy!” Scorpius tilted his head up arrogantly, but all it did was emphasize his pointy chin and too-long neck.

“…anyway, I don’t think being lazy is a very Hufflepuff trait, either,” I pointed out.

Scorpius’s head fell so quickly that I almost expected a snap or crack to accompany the motion. “Uh, maybe I’m one of the leftovers?”

Wincing, I put a hand on his shoulder. “Scorp, don’t _say_ stuff like that.”

**Tea and Emotional Crises**

“What if I’m the only Slytherin because I’m the only student that’s evil?” I asked, wide eyes staring up at my uncle.

He chuckled. “Rose, if being evil were the only thing necessary to get into Slytherin, it would be the largest house.”

I bit my lip, a frown furrowing my brow. “Huh. That makes me feel better about myself but worse about everything else.”

Uncle Harry ruffled my hair. “Good, that means you’re growing up.”

That made me feel even worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Personally, I think this is the weakest chapter of this fic. Scenes get longer, characters settle into their skins, one-off jokes spiral into ongoing plotlines, etc. 
> 
> On an unrelated note, any thoughts on tags? I'm sure I'm missing some good ones.


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